There’s no quiet on earth so intense as the Antarctic on a clear morning. We’re in a sheltered bay ringed by snow-drenched peaks, the impassive faces of glaciers the size of tower blocks dropping vertically into the water. The sky above is the same blue as the cyan-tinged hearts of the icebergs bobbing silently on the gentle swell, and the only sound is the faint crackle of brash ice against our small boat. So when the peace is shattered by the sound of a 30-ton whale snoring, it’s impossible to ignore.
The humpback is “logging” – floating sleepily at the surface so it can breathe. Every so often spray flies up from its blowhole, with a sound like a giant’s sneeze. And when Ari Friedlaender raises a crossbow and shoots, I hold my breath. We watch as the bolt pierces the humpback just behind the dorsal fin, before we break into whoops and cheers.
