SOFIE'S HUNT STARTS SLOWLY, thanks to relentless bad weather. We spend 12 days in the harbors of two villages—Honningsvåg and Mehamn—waiting for attacking northern winds to calm down. Bordered by acres of cod drying on tall wooden racks, these towns reek of fish and boredom.

The whalers are a strange combination of blue-collar and genteel. No one says hello when you cross paths; no one excuses himself for farting; and calendars starring the busty ladies of Lorentzen Hydraulics decorate the boat's interior.

But their European manners also come through. The men keep the kitchen spotless, have a touching habit of calling Captain Karlsen far ("father"), and fuss over creature comforts like hand-rolled cigarettes and personalized coffee mugs.

One afternoon, docked in Honningsvåg, I come across Olsen and Karlsen engrossed in making a cake. They've built up delicate layers covered with berries and cream, garnishing their masterpiece with grated chocolate. "I guess you'll be doing this every day from now on,'' I say. "Because once you spoil us, we'll expect nothing less."

"In that case, you won't be getting any," Olsen retorts.

The men aren't above the occasional prank, including one I should've seen coming. One afternoon, Olsen serves us baked cuts of meat that I assume are beef. Not until I've wolfed down two helpings does he ask me how I like the taste of minke whale.

Everyone pauses to listen, so I choose my words carefully.

"Flavorful," I say. "Juicy."

The truth is, I didn't want to like the taste of whale and wasn't sure I'd try it if they offered, but it's not bad. It's lean like veal and has a rich, gamy taste.

Pleased by my assessment, the men tick off their favorite recipes, sounding like Bubba from Forrest Gump touting the joys of cooked shrimp: fried whale, baked whale, barbecued whale . . .

Overall, though, there isn't much levity with this group. They answer my questions in a curt amalgam of Swedish, Norwegian, and English, and they're not shy about telling me to shut up. "You're too little to know everything and too big to know nothing," Skarheim says one day when I ask him to explain a minor detail.

To pass the time when we're docked, I spend hours lying around reading Moby Dick, a novel Skarheim obviously doesn't care for. "That book is totally inaccurate," he protests one afternoon before pulling out a photo album. "This is what whaling is really like."

His album, filled with color shots of whale butchering, makes Herman Melville's gruesome descriptions seem quaint—and Skarheim realizes he's sending the wrong message. "Don't photograph too much blood," he tells me. "Believe me, there's a reason you never see pictures from slaughterhouses. Those places would make anyone sick, but people still want their bacon."

I'd feel blessed if gory pictures were my only problem: Aboard Sofie, I suffer terrible bouts of seasickness. On our first overnight transit, six-foot seas pitch us at a rate of 1,200 jarring slams an hour, and Sofie keels so badly that I have to prop one foot against a wall to stay vertical.

"Did you take your pills?" Skarheim asks when I climb to the bridge.

"Yeah."

"Good."

Actually, not so good. Earlier, I ate some dried cod and chased it with chocolate. The pills are acting like a cork, keeping me from throwing up this horrible mix. Skarheim razzes me, saying the seas we're in are nothing but "little bubbles."

"So where are we going?" I ask weakly.

"There are two rules on a boat," he says. "First, the captain makes all the decisions. Second, the captain makes mistakes, but he still makes all the decisions. And I'm not the captain."

"We're still going north, right?"

"Yup."