I can definitely identify with this statement from the article.

Ken had to climb his mast once in the middle of the night, in twenty-foot waves and thirty knots of wind, to free a snagged line. "You have to go," he said. "It's that or have your mast come down. Then there are times that are much worse, when you're safe down below, but the conditions are so extreme you think, Nothing can handle this, and you just wait for the boat to break. But a funny thing happens. You get complacent. There's an acclimation that happens out there, where what would seem crazy to most people starts to seem normal. You saw fifty knots of wind and twenty-foot seas yesterday, so seeing sixty knots and thirty-footers today doesn't seem so bad."

It seemed surreal at first as you would leave the helm after racing down waves in 40+ winds and 15-20' seas to the cabin below to try and rest.  You feel the boat racing like a rocket ship with the sound thunder from wind ripping through the rigging, the creeks, the moans, the water racing by.   The lee straps would catch you, holding you in the bunk as the boat would heel as it started to round up with a wave pushing her sideways.  You would start to think where is the life raft,  the EPIRB, the ditch bag, who gets what, will it be cold.   This would happen hour after hour until your mind would reset.  The noises and motions that first bother you became common like familiar sounds of your car - the ones others can hear but you accept as normal.  Before long what at first seems like the boat is tearing apart becomes normal until the wind increases and new sounds echoed inside your head once again reminding you - its not normal.  Once again you enter a state where you expect the rigging to fail and wait for the explosion of the mast snapping and coming crashing down.  This goes on for hours and you reach a stage where you become so desensitized to the chaos that it is actually calming and your brain slows down as if pitching, rolling, deafening sounds and the fear of the boat breaking up fade away.  Chaos becomes normal and the seconds of calm as the gusts ease slightly are brief periods of a life you used to know.  You no longer hope that it stops but that is just doesn't get worse.  You look across to your crew mate and without word convey its going to be ok - the boat can take much more than us.  It is your mind you are struggling with now.

And then it happens with the wind begins to howl like a banshee.  Its like the point in a marathon when you break through the pain and persistent desire to quit into a third wind and your body is so full of adrenaline that you become numb.  You realize now that you cannot turn off the TV, you can't stop the car, you can't wake from this nightmare and you accept what fate is coming.  You become calm and relaxed as if you are already sitting on the beach listening the water lapping at the shore and pain in your shoulders from endless hours at the helm is the sun warming you.   You start to laugh at the silliness and seriousness of it and turn to your mate and yell - GREAT VACATION AY MATE!   He looks back and says.  WOULDN'T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY - ANY CHANCE OF A RATION OF RUM!  Now that sounds great but you don't need any drugs at this point because you've been on working off your own bodies natural high for some time.  Your back at the helm now feeling every muscle in your body and keeping you head from hitting the helm as the desire for sleep is past overwhelming and bordering on hallucination.

Just then the wind starts to subside like the gates on a huge damn are slowly being closed.   First the constant howling from the wind in the rigging goes from deafening to the thunder of a tornado passing by and then moving away.   The rain subsides and the wind continues to die and the boat slows and the creeks and moans can be heard again.  The seas are still churning but it all just seems like another day at sea when you hit the bottom of a wave and see nothing but dark water 360 degrees and then endless sea 360 degree at the top of the next wave.  The winds are down to  30 knts now and it like light air racing on the river.   The sounds of the wind through the rigging sound like gentle rushing water rather than a grinder cutting through steel.   You think you are floating - in a dream.  Or are you a sleep now?  You come back in a instant when your mate taps you on the shoulder as says, "I can take over now".   Another hour and a half just went by and its time to rest. 

Your head hits the pillow and you are gone immediately in the silence and familiar surrounding below deck.  You wake to an eerie calmness as if the boat is not moving - tied to a dock.   You jump up thinking something must be wrong and poke your head through the companionway.   The wind has completely died off the the seas are starting to calm.  Your still numb but time seems have stopped.  You feel yourself breathing again and your body goes limp.   For a split second you think this is a dream then wonder if the chaos you've been going through for the past eight hours was a dream.  Neither is true and both are true - its all in the past.  You drift back below to your bunk checking your watch for how long you dosed off - three hours.  Time for you to get ready for your shift again.   You look at your mate again sleeping peacefully and think to yourself.    Life's great but a little at a time please. 

Postscript - Reread this story a few times to get a sense of what it was like.  I've been asked many times if I would do it again.  I have to say yes and no.  Don't really know why yet but starting to becoming clearer as I settled back into work. Cheers Mate!