Charles Dickens said the wind can sound like a distant giant whistling for his dog. On a small sailing vessel in the midst of a vast empty ocean, with the winds blasting through the rigging at more than 50 knots, giants no longer whistle - they shriek.
In Bass Strait, the notorious and unpredictable stretch of water between the Australian mainland and the island of Tasmania, these near-hurricane strength winds have by now whipped the waves up into cascading swells the size of three and four-storey buildings. The boat falls off the crest of these towering monsters into the trough below with an impact that sets off a knee-weakening shudder, threatening to rip the hull apart.
On deck, the mixture of salt spray and rain blown horizontally by the howling winds feels like sandpaper - literally peeling the skin off those exposed parts of your face as you desperately try to peer beyond the bow of the boat and pick the next wave as it rears up, breaks and sends a wall of cascading green sea into the cockpit, knocking your feet from under you.
Red-eyed, close to exhaustion from lack of sleep due to the constant noise and motion after three to four days of three-hourly watches followed by just three hours of rest or interrupted sleep on a wet sail below deck, you realise it's unlikely there are any atheists aboard.
It's about this time that every ocean yacht racer asks the question: 'What in hell am I doing here?'
The great paradox is that, almost without exception, the following year the very same ocean yacht racer will be back again, competing in what is regarded as one of the toughest sporting events in the world - the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race.