I waded through the mud, shoving the skiff before me and yammering the chant of my manhood to the world.
I paid for it.

I was sick for a couple of days, meanly sick, and my arms were painfully poisoned from the barnacle scratches.

For a week I could not use them, and it was a torture to put on and take off my clothes.
I swore, "Never again!" The game wasn't worth it.

The price was too stiff.

I had no moral qualms.