Capt Farouq turns the wheel as he watches the ferry terminal of Bandar Abbas grow smaller, its bright lights flickering in the distance.

In front of him, the navigation radar beeps periodically, its green and pink lights glowing in the darkness. The ferry, today at about half capacity with roughly 100 passengers, turns and heads into the darkness of the strait of Hormuz.

Farouq, 39, sits comfortably in his cabin, overlooking the pitch black horizon as he sails towards Hormuz Island, a short commute of about half an hour from the Iranian mainland's Haqqani Port, for 340,000 toman, about £1. He is relaxed and smiles as he pulls into the deeper waters. He's been a captain for the past 18 years, and the strait of Hormuz is his second home.

Farouq says the crossings have not stopped since the start of the US-Israeli war on Iran on 28 February, although passenger numbers are down and the journey has become more dangerous. For months, Farouq has heard explosions coming from the strait, unclear as to whether that is air defence or attacks, or both. Tonight is no different.

Inside the ferry, passengers say they have gotten used to the sounds too, and, to an extent, the war itself. They drink tea and smoke cigarettes. Some nap, while others entertain their children. It's hot and humid, the air thick, the windows fogged with condensation.

Even with a fragile ceasefire in place, here on the coast, it has barely felt as though the war has stopped.

According to Iranian government sources, attacks on the southern port of Bandar Abbas have damaged 760 fishing and commercial vessels. Farouq says his own ferry was also damaged by shrapnel while docked at the port, though it was quickly repaired.

Since the start of the war, Iranian forces have repeatedly attacked vessels attempting to cross the strait. In the first week of October alone, at least 12 attacks were reported against oil, liquefied natural gas and liquefied petroleum gas tankers, sending oil prices back above $100 a barrel.

With pressure mounting on the US president, Donald Trump, before the midterm elections, he is rumoured to be once again considering strikes.

Fishers, captains and harbour workers all depend on the strait for their livelihoods and the war has made their work increasingly difficult. Fishers can no longer venture as far out, ports have come under attack, and many people fled Bandar Abbas in the early months of the war for smaller, more remote villages in search of safety.

Anvar Sadat, a 38-year-old fisher who works at Bandar Abbas's fish market, says business has slowed and that making ends meet has become increasingly difficult.

"Fishing boats can't go out as freely as before the war, and our movement is restricted," he says, adding that several of his colleagues in the city have been killed in attacks.

"This place was hell," says Abdul Salam, a 45-year-old garbage collector. The beaches, particularly those near the port, were among the most dangerous places during the height of the war, he says, describing heavy attacks that forced him to stop working almost entirely to avoid the risk.

Life on the island, however, has been different, Farouq explains as he steers into the small, dimly lit port of Hormuz Island, his last crossing of the day before heading back to his family for the night.

Hormuz Island has long been known as a kind of "hippy paradise", a place Iranians have come to regard as "free". Artists and creatives moved here from bigger cities in search of peace; women swim in bathing suits, writers and painters find space to work, and life moves slower. There is "love and magic" here, as Yashar, a 35-year-old surfer, puts it, "a different rhythm".

Life here has changed little, Yashar says, although the war has brought some new restrictions, and a handful of attacks, mostly on infrastructure. The roughly 8,000 residents are trying to support each other, and to preserve the sense of freedom that has set the island apart, he adds.

The government has closed off parts of Hormuz Island's north, but beyond the now restricted areas, life has continued, he explains. "As long as you don't go north, they leave you alone," he says of the army.

"The tourism sector has taken the biggest hit," says Omran, a 45-year-old tour guide, adding that he prefers to go by his first name only. "Guesthouses and homestays remain closed, as do restaurants and many cafes." Visitors have largely stopped coming since the war, dealing a heavy blow to an island whose economy depends on tourism and fishing, both of which have been disrupted.

From the higher parts of the island, Omran says, it is possible to see deep into the strait on clear days, when the haze lifts and the humid air clears, all the way to the mountains of Khasab in Oman.

Residents have climbed up these barren mountains of red and white stone, at times watching the war unfold in the distance. Tankers remain stranded in the strait, explosions can be heard regularly. Yet residents also say the war has not driven them from the island.

Khaleh Kaniz, a 67-year-old painter who was born and raised on Hormuz, laughs when asked whether she had considered leaving in February, at the start of the war.

"Why should we leave? Where would we go? Our homes and our lives are here."