As the whale is slowly winched on board by its tail, The creature's own tremendous weight squeezes out the last spasms of life. blood spurts from its blowhole; a semicircle of bright red radiates away from the boat's hull, contrasting with the black surface of the Barents Sea. The winch motor whines as the four-ton mammal slides into place, ready for butchering.

It's 4:30 a.m. and we're floating just off the northern coast of Norway, not far from the port of Båtsfjord. This is our first kill after 12 days of hunting and waiting. At this time of year—early May—the sun barely dips below the horizon at night, and right now it's piercing the freezing air with warm beams of sunshine.

The five Norwegian crewmen, dwarfed by the enormous minke whale, start knifing its five-inch-thick blubber into three-foot squares. During whaling's 19th-century heyday, blubber was the much-prized source of whale oil, used as fuel for lamps and candles and later as an industrial lubricant. In modern Norway, consumers covet whale meat as a dinnertime delicacy, but, unlike their counterparts in places like Japan and Greenland, they won't eat blubber, so it gets thrown overboard. There's a terrible ripping sound as the men peel it back; pieces hit the water with loud slaps. Soon, gulls swarm our 56-foot fishing boat, Sofie, to fight over the floating fat.

The crew methodically hacks 150-pound chunks of steaks off the whale's back, stomach, and tail. Gallons of blood slicken the deck, and the men struggle to keep their footing. It takes two of them—wielding sharp, three-pronged hooks—to move the chunks, and it's a miracle no one gets impaled. Captain Leif Einar Karlsen, balding and comfortably overweight at 43, nimbly hops around as he writes down the whale's size, weight, and sex for the edification of Norwegian scientists. While I watch, one of the crewmen—a wiry 48-year-old named Kjell Edvardsen—sees my blank stare and puts a bloody knife in his mouth. He gives off a pirate's snarl and, with a chuckle, digs back in.

It takes the men less than an hour to transform the 8,000-pound minke into a bony carcass and ice down the beet-red piles of flesh, worth about $40,000 in grocery stores. Job completed, they untie the 4,000-pound carcass and let it slide over the edge. It sinks like an anchor.

"Take care," Karlsen says. "Thanks for the meat." Then he closes the railing door and turns his back on the ocean.