A grey slug of a seal is spotted in the distance. The ship is turned in a tight circle and slid up gently to the floe. Jack and Max and Meg confer on the bridge with binoculars. The seal’s a male. It’s on. Patrick puts the call over the intercom for gladiators to assemble on deck. I’m going down too: I need some more recordings. I’m in the third cage over the side, with Helen. The steel of our cage thuds onto the snow just as the gladiators throw the net. The animal slips through. It’s a mighty old bull, magnificent and battle scarred and thick. Max throws himself on top of him with the net and the other men fall in after him. They’re pushed off by the animal’s powerful back and tail but Max and Gino have him around the neck and the other men fall in again and they’ve got him down. The animal’s mouth stains the white net red, he’s got his teeth in it, he’s caught and sawing at it and gagging and trying to bark. Meg rushes in with the needle. Her face is tight and white. She’s giving him a big dose. The animal falls quickly under.

He doesn’t come up.

The gladiators step back. No-one does anything for what seems like a very long time. The expeditioners lining the bow are silent above us. Max is still. His face is pale and set. I can’t go up to him. I want to so much. Jack has an arm around Meg. The crane on the deck drops a limp net over to us to bring the seal on board. I feel very, very tired.

There’s a postmortem. The prognosis: trauma, again.

The ethics committee in Australia decides that the captures can continue. The gladiators meet to put the project’s continuation to a vote. The project’s stopped. The ship’s drained. Jack speaks to the crowded rec room in a voice without colour or variation or volume. He says the project will be postponed. That they’ll try again next year, using tranquillisers fired from dart guns. He takes no questions and leaves quickly afterwards.

I walk away from the room with a deep, familiar adrenalin rush. I’ve got a scoop. It’ll be picked up nationwide. Fantastic audio. A great story. Award-winning stuff.

‘Fuck, Fin. Fuck. Do you have to?’ Max turns away from me. ‘There were grown men crying in that gladiators’ meeting. This has taken a terrible toll. The greenies will be onto us and the animal liberationists. Oh God. They won’t understand. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Why are you a journalist?’

He buries his head in his hands. ‘This whole thing means so much to Jack, don’t you understand that? It’s such an important project. It can’t afford to be jeopardised.’