OVER THE NEXT 16 HOURS we'll kill four more whales. Skarheim never misses, and the steaks pile up, covering every inch of walking space on the deck.

The only unknown in this process is how quickly the whales perish. Earlier in the trip, Skarheim had assured me that the exploding grenade "knocks the whales unconscious, and they die almost immediately from shock or blood loss." That was true with the first whale, but the next four suffer a great deal. The harpoons hit muscle, and appear to drive the whales mad with pain and fear. One of them shoots out of the water and writhes like a marlin on a hook.

The wounded animals try two techniques of evasion—diving or speeding across the surface—but the flight never lasts more than ten minutes. The whales, tired from pulling against the boat, are listless by the time the winch hauls them to the bow, where Skarheim waits with a .458-caliber rifle. Then he fires into the whale's brain until it stops moving.

After the fourth kill, a male, the next whale we spot is deemed too large to fit on the meat-crowded deck. In a celebratory mood, Karlsen cuts off the dead male's penis and holds the two-foot-long organ up to his chest. "It makes a damn nice tie," he jokes.

Late in the day, I retreat to the bridge. In my mind, I have no problem accepting the argument that hunting minkes is defensible culturally and perhaps even ecologically. But I never want to witness a whale's death again. "One man's sign of the apocalypse is another man's daily bread," I write in my notes. On this day, the omens look grim, and I'm not hungry.

After the last whale is killed, the bloody deck, tools, and clothes are sprayed down before the men retreat to their bunks. Sofie drifts for the next 12 hours, a silent, sleeping ghost ship.

At lunch the next day, Skarheim rubs his sore arms and says, "These are just for decoration today. Useless."

"Yup," somebody says, "it costs a lot to be a man."