I was thinking heavy philosophical thoughts, as I often do during moments of great misery. Actually, that's too mild of a description; I don't want to pull punches. What I was experiencing was complete agony, awful suffering, total woe. We were repowering. I was grinding sharp shards of fiberglass within the tiny enclosed engine room of our 43-foot Wauquiez ketch, Ganesh. In the tropics. At midday. I was dressed in a full zoot suit, complete with gloves, respirator, and fogged goggles. To prevent the itchy glass dust from getting everywhere in our floating home, my wife, Carolyn, had sealed me off inside with plastic sheeting. I was pouring sweat. I could feel a thick crust of toxic dust forming around my damp nostrils despite my expensive breathing mask. There was barely room in the tiny space for me and my grinder. Often, I'd lose sight in the murk of my grinding disc, spinning murderously at 8,000 rpm. I was worried about my feet. Crocs aren't the perfect footwear for such endeavors. I could barely turn around. It was claustrophobic. I itched. I wanted to scratch. My back hurt. My left calf was cramping up. Even worse, I was sitting uncomfortably on an improvised seat of sticks between my newly made engine beds. I didn't want to grind off a toe or two by mistake. Thus, I concentrated fully on the task at hand—and pondered the Sailing Life's big question: Why do they call it pleasure boating?