Month: May 2025
It sat on my shelf, creased just-so, the slim spine a reminder of what I thought medicine could be — a journey of discovery, resilience, and learning the skill of managing uncertainty. My professor gifted it to me, a nod of encouragement for my journey as both a medical student and a writer: Siddhartha Mukherjee’s The Laws of Medicine. One passage from the book has lingered in my mind, depicting a legendary surgeon, Dr. Castle, whose presence in the OR was nothing short of commanding. His mastery of surgery, so formidable “that he allowed the students to do most of the operating, knowing that he could anticipate their mistakes or correct them swiftly after,” left an indelible mark on those around him. And then, as if to hint at his humanity outside the OR, Mukherjee snuck in a one-sentence mention of Castle’s weekend retreats to the sea, where he sailed on a vessel aptly named “The Knife.”
On the top of the same bookshelf sat a model of the 1992 America3 sailing yacht, its mast just barely avoided scraping the ceiling. It, unlike the book, was indeed a mere trinket; ornamental as a means to suggest refinement of taste. Years later, I thought back to these bookshelf items while watching the sailboats on the lake from the seventh-floor conference room of my medical school. From that vantage point, I observed the sailors, occasionally glimpsing moments of struggle as they grappled with the lines, trying to tame the luffing sail. It felt like a serendipitous sign.
The imagery of Dr. Castle, both in the OR and his leisure time on the water, fascinated me. This was the archetypal surgeon: skilled, composed, and confident in every facet of his life. It wasn’t long before the seed planted by the story of Dr. Castle took root in my mind. I found myself drawn to the sailing club on the lake, perhaps yearning to give reason to the model yacht holding such a prominent position in my room, or perhaps conflating my desire to be the man written on the pages with the need to be a sailor. Either way, and on a whim, I made the decision to sign up for sailing classes during the summer of medical school.
As I stepped onto the deck of a sailboat for the first time, a sense of apprehension quickly enveloped me; my sense of stability rocked with each small wave. The terminology was entirely foreign – “it’s time to raise the halyard,” “don’t forget to tighten the boom vang,” or “we’re not ready to gybe yet” – but beneath the surface lay an undeniable allure: a promise of childlike adventure, a chance to learn something new without the responsibility to be good at it yet. A fitting promise, as our adult class followed a summer camp of nine- and ten-year olds learning the same things earlier in the day.
In the weeks that followed, I immersed myself in the world of sailing, learning the ropes — quite literally — and embracing the process of learning with a childlike curiosity that I hadn’t felt in years. Sailing was entirely new to me, and with that unfamiliarity came a refreshing sense of freedom. There was no pressure to be an expert or even to be competent — just the joy of discovery. Much like the children in the camp immediately before us, I allowed myself to stumble, make mistakes, and, more importantly, ask questions without inhibition.
When I took that spirit of learning back to medical training, that same sense of awe and wonder became readily apparent in my studies. I found a renewed motivation to push through the challenges and rigors of medical school. As adults, we often shy away from admitting what we don’t know, fearing judgment or embarrassment. This is especially true in medical school. But in this new setting, surrounded by knots, sails, and terminology that made little sense to me at first, I let go. I was no longer concerned with how I appeared to my peers. I tapped into the openness of my inner nine-year-old, who wasn’t afraid to ask why the boom vang needed tightening, what would happen if the sail wasn’t properly trimmed, or, for the 12th time, what the clew was.
In doing so, I rediscovered the beauty of learning like a kid — not burdened by the self-consciousness of adulthood, but driven by an insatiable curiosity. Every mistake was a lesson, every failure an opportunity to understand something new. Like the children who spent their summer mornings mastering the art of tacking and gybing, I approached each challenge with a willingness to fail, eager to see what the next lesson would teach me. In the seriousness of medicine, it’s a lesson that I often neglected.
Learning in this way also brought an unexpected joy. I found myself laughing at my missteps (and almost falling in the water at least once), celebrating small victories like tying a proper knot or gybing without losing control of the boat. With each outing, my skills grew, but more importantly, so did my sense of wonder and appreciation for the learning process itself. That summer of sailing, it turns out, was not just about mastering technique — it was about recapturing the fearless, inquisitive spirit of youth. Bringing that same fearless curiosity back to medical school, I’m reminded that the path to becoming a doctor isn’t just about getting things right; it’s about embracing each challenge as an opportunity to learn and grow, with the wonder and excitement of a child.
This article was originally published by Doximity as an Op-Med on January 21, 2025. It can be read at the following link: https://opmed.doximity.com/articles/learning-the-ropes-of-medicine-literally
This article was reprinted in the Spring 2025 issue of Worcester Medicine. It can be read at the following link: https://issuu.com/wdms/docs/worcestermedicine-spring2025_
Years ago, as a medical student in Boston, I watched a senior surgeon operate on a woman. The surgeon, call him Dr. Castle, was a legend among the surgical residents. About six feet tall, with an imposing, formal manner that made the trainees quake in their clogs, he spoke in a slow, nasal tone that carried the distinct drawl of the South. There was something tensile in his build—more steel wire than iron girder—as if his physique had been built to illustrate the difference between stamina and strength. He began rounds at five every morning, then moved down to the operating theaters in the basement by six fifteen, and worked through the day into the early evening. He spent the weekends sailing near Scituate in a one-mast sloop that he had nicknamed The Knife.
The residents worshiped Castle, not only for the precision of his technique, but also the of the quality of his teaching. Other surgeons may have been kinder, gentler instructors, but the key to castles teaching method was supreme self-confidence. He was so technically adept at surgery—so masterful at his craft—that he allowed the students to do most of the operating, knowing that he could anticipate their mistakes or correct them swiftly after. If a resident nicked an artery during an operation, a lesser surgeon might step in nervously to seal the bleeding vessel. Castle would step back and fold his arms, look quizzically at the resident, and wait for him or her to react. If the stitch came too late, Castle’s hand would reach out, with the speed and precision of a falcon’s talon, to pinch off the bleeding vessel, and he would stitch it himself, shaking his head, as if mumbling to himself, “Too little, too late.” I have never seen senior residents in surgery, grown men and women, with six or eight years of operating experience, so deflated by the swaying of a human head.
Siddhartha Mukherjee, “The Laws of Medicine”