One night, the guy drilled a hole right through my finger.

I have two small, mostly round scars on my left index finger, one on the top and one on the bottom. I am not sure exactly how big they are now, but originally they were 3/16 ths of an inch in diameter. That's the size drill bit that Andy Massimino was using when he drilled through my finger and reamed out the hole. Twice.
In the evenings, after the kids had settled down and turned in, Mass doubled as Camp's outboard mechanic in residence. Mass was great with tools. Thank goodness.
When there was daylight, he would work under the waterfront chickee with one of the three-cylinder 90's on an engine stand. When he needed to work through the late evenings because a boat was down hard and an engine repair was necessary for the next day's activities, he would work in the lighted utility room. Wherever he was working, the rest of us would usually hang out, just to watch the show.
Or really, to listen to it. We loved him.
The man could talk, and it was fascinating just to sit around and listen to him talk and tell stories with that Philadelphia Italian thing going. He could also swear, which he did at a high level of artistry. For example, "you motherless bastard" was the way he addressed, after each attempt, some recalcitrant engine component which would either not go in or not come out the way it was supposed to. You thought about it for a while and realized what an economical insult that was. Summed up all of parentage in one fell swoop. Stuff like that came out all the time.
One particular evening, the "motherless bastard" receiving his attention was a clutch dog, which is a big round component of the outboard's lower unit. There were three set screws around the outside of it with allen heads on them. Massimino, tired and impatient, had stripped them out.
"Roberts, get off your ass and come over here and hold this thing. I'll drill them out and replace them."
"Like this?"
"NO!, not 'like this.' You're holding it like a friggin' girl. Grab the god damn thing and don't let it move. Now hold it. Are you holding it?"
I gritted my teeth to show him I wasn't holding it like a girl. He started to drill out the allen screws, really bearing down on them, and muttering "you pig" at the clutch dog.
I was looking down with my arms outstreached onto the workbench, trying to stay out of his way. I noticed that Massimino was standing up on his tip toes, pressing down all of his considerable weight on the drill. So I glance up at the screeching drill bit and see smoke wisping out of the deepening allen screw head, which is right between my two hands. Then I notice that the drill bit is running in a curve because there is so much pressure behind it.
At this point I was honestly contemplating the dynamics of a drill bit that is spinning while being bent into a curve. As the drill bit material rotates around on the outward side of the curve, it elongates. When it continues to the inside of the curve, the material is compressed. So I am thinking how that tough little drill bit is actually being bent back and forth like a paper clip, at about a thousand times a minute. Damn! That is one tough drill bit! I would have never bet it could take that without snapping in half!
BANG!!!
My left hand lurched and curled up. Massimino fell into me and we had this strange sensation of being handcuffed to each other, with me tugging on my hand and Mass tugging back on the drill, but neither one going anywhere.
That's when we both noticed the drill chuck bottomed out on my finger, and the broken remnant of the drill bit poking out the other side of it.
There is this little moment when your brain is struggling to process something that's not quite right. "Let's see. There's my finger. There's the end of the drill bit sticking out of the bottom of my finger. Cleanly. Am I seeing double? Should the drill bit be sticking out of the bottom of my finger?"
Massimino and I make eye contact. And then he gets this little twinkle in his eye. And without breaking eye contact he reaches over with his other hand and grabs my wrist. I hear a little click. Jesus! The reverse button! No - MASS! you're not . . . !
Mass squeezes the trigger on the drill and pulls back hard before I have time to flinch.
It's over. Two little holes. Maybe three or four drops of blood.
"Horne, get off your ass and come over here and hold this thing. Bring me the drill bits. Hee hee. Hee hee hee."