The area is also one of the most acoustically polluted areas in the world (manmade sonar and naval equipment can affect the subtle communication and echolocation systems of cetaceans).

On the first morning, the sudden loud growl of the engine woke us at dawn. We were given 15 minutes to sprint to the harbour showers before breakfast on deck.

By 7am we were motoring out into the open sea, whilst the sky turned pink behind us, the day fresh and luminously beautiful. Almost immediately, we were joined on either side of the boat by a large pod of common dolphins, that swam and splashed and jumped beside us, like marine outriders escorting us into their world.

Once breakfast was packed away, we were shown the hourly rota of duties that became the routine for the week. We took it in turns to collect data on wind, sea and envrironmental conditions every 20 minutes, and analysed water salinity and temperature. All statistical evidence was essential in building a picture of the cetaceans’ environment.

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We also took turns at the helm and, crucially, at port and starboard look-out posts, on watch for dolphins, whales and sea-turtles. Ric taught us how to scan the horizon with binoculars for the “cues” of dolphins – a jump, a splash or a glimpse of the tip of a fin.

“It might seem boring to begin with, but sightings are obviously essential for our work”, he explained. Boring it wasn’t: I’d found a lofty purpose that finally justified staring at the sea for hours on end. It was peaceful, meditative work. Not much would happen.

A shearwater would fly over, a swordfish would break water a few metres away. I’d reapply some sun cream; the mast creaked; a snippet of conversation would drift down the boat. It was hot, and hard not to be lulled asleep by the hum of the motor and the rise and fall of the Toftevaag through the swell.

And then suddenly, someone would yell “Sighting!” and we would scramble, to see the dolphins reappearing out of the blue, streaking along beside us, darting below the boat before emerging on the other side.

They would jump with a “pfffffffff” to breathe before disappearing back under, their silver-grey bodies diving in perfect arcs. We grabbed cameras for photo-identification (the fins of dolphins and whales are as unique to cetaceans as fingerprints are to humans), and quickly took data on the group’s position, structure, size and behaviour.

And we watched as they glistened and zig-zagged through the clear sea, twisting on one side to cast a black eye up at their mesmerised audience, before jostling for best position in the wave created by the Toftevaag’s stern.

Often Ric or Jeppe, a Danish biologist on board to examine the use of acoustic deterrent devices in fishermens’ nets, would scramble the “Zodiac”, a small rigid inflatable boat (or RIB), in order to get closer to the animals. We came across a family of pilot whales on our fourth day, a hot day so hazy we quickly lost sight of land.

The horizon was indistinguishable, the sea millpond flat. I felt totally detached from our landlubbers’ world, lost in a blue haze of water and puffing whales.

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