H

alf an hour later, we reduce speed before going down into the cabin to listen to the tones. Energetic clicks resound in the helmet: sperm whale in sight! Our second of the day. Each time, a childlike excitement grips the crew. Everyone is at his post. Like seasoned professionals, Txema and Tita divide up the tasks. One at the helm, the other at the bow to photograph the caudal. On the sperm whale's second ascent, Txema launches the drone, and approaches the whale to film the marks on its skin, before Tita retrieves the drone. A real team effort. The wind has died down and it's hot. We swim in the middle of the Mediterranean. Beneath our bodies splashing about in the open sea, there's a whole life that escapes us: sperm whales hunting, playing, communicating. We see nothing. We hear nothing. Only the yellow tube of the hydrophone connects us to this fascinating world.

‍

We set course for Menorca, with the sun setting over Mallorca. Estibaliz, on watch, hears a whistle. Dolphins in prospect. We scan the horizon. No sign. The sea is oily, without the slightest foam. Where are they? We wait again. Then, suddenly: a fin, then ten, thirty...there are around two hundred striped dolphins, Txema estimates, concentrated on his drone's control screen. One of the largest schools he's ever seen. All around the boat, dozens of dolphins jump and play with the bow, pass us, come back, perform figures, perfectly synchronized. A magical choreography against a sunset backdrop.

‍

Friday, July 11

I woke up around 7:30 am. The weather forecast calls for a squall and southerly winds at the end of the day. We head along the north coast of the island to take shelter in Ciutadella. In the meantime, it's dead calm, not a breath of air. The sea is milky, its pale blue hues mingling with those of the sky. Menorca is crowned with clouds.  A meditative atmosphere. As the hours pass, the heat rises. Instead of listening to the abyss, we observe the coast. Txema and Tita take out their ukuleles and sing songs about love and the ocean. We catch sight of Fornells, the Cavalleria lighthouse and the jagged red rocks. We stop off at Cala del Pilar, a little-visited cove that is difficult to reach. Ochre sand, red cliffs, pure blue sea: we dive headfirst into this heavenly setting.  On the sandy bottom, a few meters below the surface, small black and white rays glide slowly by.

‍

Sunday, July 13

Last day on board. We all hope to see another sperm whale or dolphin. The sea is rough and the boat is pitching. I'm not seasick... but I am. I go down to the cabin to prepare a bowl of cereal - a bad idea. I come right back up, my heart in my mouth. I cling to the horizon and force myself to swallow a few mouthfuls to chase away the nausea.

The Balearics may have escaped the torrential rains that battered Barcelona, but the weather remains a cause for concern. The DANA season - violent Mediterranean depressions - normally begins at the end of August. Now, they are appearing as early as July, and with the seas getting warmer, they are likely to become even more intense. Yet another sign that the marine balance is shifting.

We sail alongside Cabrera, still in the 1,000-metre zone. We listen to the hydrophone every half-hour. Radio silence. Conditions are not ideal. We decide to head for Sa Ràpita. Despite the capricious weather, which prevented us from collecting as much data as planned, we were lucky enough to see many cetaceans. Every click recorded, every tail photographed, every position noted feeds the Tursiops database. During their expeditions, Txema and Tita discovered an area in the north of Menorca where females give birth and raise their young. At their request, the government should create a marine protected area. This good news, announced at the Nice Ocean Summit last June, underlines the vital work of Tursiops. As for me, I hope one day to see a shoal of females with their young!

‍