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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”
The afternoon air had a palpable starchiness to it, cool and damp but still thick. As I arrived at the airport around 3 p.m., a bright haze lingered in the sky. Only a few other people were present as my brother and I walked towards the hangar: a flight instructor and her student debriefing from their lesson, another pilot shuffling around his plane filling the fuel tanks, and 5 or 6 other planes sitting parked, scattered along the ramp. Inside the hangar, the afternoon light streamed in through the gaps of the corrugated metal construction. The rusty wheels groaned in protest as the large hangar door raised, their grating screech reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. With the door open to the beautiful vista outside, I set my bag on the floor and pulled out the checklist. Stained blue from the occasional drips of aviation fuel, this small piece of paper was my Bible.
My training as a pilot means that I’ve become an ardent supporter of checklists, and I hope, an effective user of them. As a medical student, I’ve had the privilege of observing many different surgical teams, and while my experience in the OR is still growing, my background as a pilot has given me a unique perspective on the value of checklists. I’ve noticed that in medicine, some of my colleagues seem to suffer from checklist fatigue – a very real challenge that I believe stems from a misunderstanding of what checklists are truly meant to accomplish. The purpose of my checklist as a pilot is to: (1) help correctly configure the aircraft, consistently; (2) mitigate human factors by assuming humans are imperfect; and (3) prompt the pilot to brief the tasks that do require adaptability and judgment.
These days, I walk around the plane scanning the leading edge of the wing with my eyes and running my hand over the rivets and screws that hold it together, often without ever glancing at the physical paper. I’ve gotten so used to the flow of my pre-flight checks that I don’t need anything to remind myself what to do. However, it was hammered into me as a student pilot that mental flows like this should always be backed up with the physical checklist — just in case. It’s become a habit now, that after the exterior pre-flight, I pause and read each item in my checklist out loud. Crucially, as I read each item aloud, I actively recall inspecting it.
For example, one of the lines reads: “Tires / Brakes / Struts.” It’s easy to simply read it off rotely, without fully being aware that you’ve checked each separate item. I’m certainly guilty of this too. Now, as a more experienced pilot, I realize that doing so is a disservice to myself, my passengers, the people on the ground without any control of the matter, and all those who place their trust in us as pilots.
On that cool afternoon day, as I read that line, I thought to myself:
- “Did I press hard on the tire to feel its pressure and rebound?” I remembered pushing down on the tire and looking at the treads and seeing that, while the front tire was well-worn, it would suffice for a few more months before needing replacement.
- “Did I move the wheel ever so slightly to see the gap between the brake pads and the rotor?” I remembered looking at the pads and the rotor, not seeing any grooves from contaminants that might have gotten lodged in between.
- “Did I look at the struts to see that there was plenty of space for suspension travel?” I remembered seeing the characteristic wear of the strut sliding up and down, absorbing all of the previous landings. It was clearly not bottoming out its range of motion.
This mental exercise took altogether less than a second. It’s a backup that gives me a chance to correct a deficiency while still on the ground. It’s a reminder that the checklist is not the physical piece of paper, but instead it is the act of actively recalling that each item was inspected or set correctly. I fully believe that this attitude contributes greatly to my safety in the air.
The same applies for medicine. Checklists must be specific; to each procedure, or at least specific to the specialty. Checklists must be sparse, only including the most critical elements that cannot be missed. Checklists should prompt the team to dig deeper where required, such as for particular procedures that need certain post-operative considerations or pose a greater risk of a sharps mishap. Checklists must encourage the team to brief the complexities where judgment is necessary. And perhaps most importantly, teams should be trained to use checklists effectively, starting with the pilot-in-command: the surgeon.
My hope is that when you come across a bad checklist, you can take charge to customize the checklist to work for you. Perhaps you can remove unnecessary items, or adjust the verbiage to say “Imaging available / As needed” instead of a yes/no checkbox, or create different checklists that include imaging only in procedures that actually require it. The success of my flights has reinforced my attitude toward checklists: I see them as tools for ensuring consistency, safety, and clarity, not as burdens or boxes to check. This mindset allows me to embrace their purpose and see beyond their limitations. With a well-designed checklist, and the right mindset, you’re not just following a procedure; you’re enhancing your ability to provide the best care possible in all situations.
While checklists are invaluable for ensuring consistency and covering critical elements, they are only part of the equation. Equally important is the role of briefings, which complement checklists by allowing space for the nuances and complexities that require professional judgment. I want to emphasize an important distinction in terminology. A “briefing” is different from a “checklist.” A checklist might prompt you to do a briefing, but the briefing enables you to consider the specifics of the particular scenario. It allows you to bring in that clinical judgment that can be lacking in surgical checklists. For example, as I’m sitting at the threshold of the runway, my pre-departure briefing prompts me to consider what obstacles will be ahead, what radio frequencies I will use to communicate to air traffic control, and what heading we will need to fly to get on course toward the destination. I think through the specifics that aren’t accounted for in a checklist.
This approach isn’t limited to the cockpit. Whether managing a flight or diagnosing a patient, the discipline of checking everything thoroughly – and questioning anything that seems off – is crucial. In both fields, safety and success depend on recognizing that the checklist is an essential tool, but not a substitute for critical thinking, human judgment, or intuition.
The checklist is more than just a series of rote tasks; it’s a physical manifestation of a core philosophy in aviation: humans are not infallible. Aviation embraces a systematic approach that acknowledges our human limitations and proactively builds in safeguards to reduce errors. Whether it’s a checklist, a pre-departure briefing, or simply reading things aloud, these are simple tools that help me fly safely. This philosophy recognizes that no matter how experienced we are, we all have blind spots and moments of complacency. By transferring this mindset to medicine, where the stakes are equally high, we can create systems that support clinical judgment, prevent oversights, and ultimately improve patient outcomes. Embracing the aviation approach in medicine means accepting that even experts need checklists, and that doing so is a strength, not a weakness.
This article was originally published by Doximity as an Op-Med on November 4, 2024. It can be read at the following link: https://opmed.doximity.com/articles/pilots-love-checklists-so-why-don-t-surgeons
My brother and I decided to fly up to Laconia, New Hampshire, near the beautiful Lake Winnipesaukee to explore the area. We’re hoping to fly to Alton Bay, an ice runway that opens up every year once the ice is thick enough, as it’s only a 10 minute flight from Laconia. Prudent aeronautical decision making means that we wanted to go explore the area first so were familiar with it before attempting a much more challenging trip!
There are so many interesting airports scattered throughout the state of Massachusetts. One that I’ve wanted to visit for a long time is Marshfield, just off of the coast and south of Boston. The fun part of this flight is flying from Fitchburg, and going underneath the busy airspace of Boston’s Class B airspace and through the Norwood Class D airspace. The views were stunning too!
Coming back from a flight, the last thing we do is land the plane! While it’s not all that complicated, it does take a lot of practice and skill to do land smoothly. Here, I go through what I think through as I land — all in real time. Keep in mind, I am not a flight instructor. This is based on my own personal experience as a pilot, so take it with a grain of salt!
Sharing my passion for aviation has always been important to me. I’m excited to launch a new YouTube channel all about aviation, called American Aviator! Check out the first video about flying at night where I talk about the requirements for staying proficient or current while flying at night and my thoughts and commentary during the flight itself.
Take a look and listen into the cockpit below:
A warning to those who may be squeamish, this is a discussion of an experience that includes the use of animals for laboratory animal surgery and surgical training. No images of surgery are included. However, at the end, I do include a video which you may choose to watch or not watch.
This was a particularly difficult article to write. We largely avoid talking about our embarrassing mistakes, regardless of how small they are. But I do think it’s important to reflect on and share the lessons we’ve learned. This is a story from my lab animal surgery course that illustrates an example in which my lab partner and I feel like we failed, even if it is purpose of the class — to provide an opportunity to make mistakes without any real consequences. It’s a chance to explore and learn. And I think this is worth sharing.
This was the first time where we were operating on living animals. We had several weeks of lectures before this, but now it was time to get some hands-on experience.
Before every surgery, we spent about half an hour just playing with the rats — holding them, petting them, comforting them. At first, they’re a little scared and hesitant, but they warm up to you really quickly. They really are just like dogs! Super curious and playful, often excited to see you, and comforted by your hands. If they had a more fluffy tail, people would probably want them as pets.
Not only is playing with them a nice and humane thing to do, but for the cynical minds, it can make or break a study of an implant design. A rat that is calm and at ease makes administering an anesthesia injection much easier and less fussy. Most importantly, surgical outcomes are far better and more consistent. If you’re life’s work depends on the success of a surgical device, it’s worth comforting the rats and playing with them before and after surgery. Each experience with a human should be a positive one.
When it came time to anesthetize them, I was surprised by how emotional it was. The anesthetic agent is delivered through an intraperitoneal injection into the lower left abdominal quadrant. The first time, it was the professor who did the injection, but later ones were done ourselves with the rat held safely in our hands.
The emotional part isn’t the actual injection. If done right, the rat feels a slight pinch, but generally doesn’t react all that much. After a minute or two of holding the rat, we put it back into the safety of its cage. They remain fairly active at first, but over the course of a few minutes become more woozy and disoriented. Eventually, they’re not able to remain coordinated and walk around. So they stumble a bit. They lie down and slowly become totally motionless.
Honestly, it is very hard to watch that. I felt an intense empathy for them and wondered what it was like from their perspective. I was on the verge of tearing up, thinking about that. I felt even more grateful afterwards, and incredibly appreciative for this opportunity to learn surgery from such an uncommon perspective. In this case, the rat will never wake up from anesthesia, so as to prevent any unnecessary pain or discomfort from our bumbling hands and surgical technique. The dose given is much higher than what would be given during major survival surgery, one in which an animal is expected to make a full recovery.
After preparing the rat by clipping the fur and setting up the surgical area, we began. An incision is made at the midline over the linea alba, a tough band of fibrous tissue. Gearing up for the final procedure, which is an ovarian hysterectomy, todays class was all about exploration. The professor had us explore the abdominal cavity to get a physical appreciation for the anatomy.
What a strange sensation to make a cut and see a slight trickle of blood come out from the skin. I had never done anything like this in the past. Of course, we had done dissections of various animals, but they were always dead and preserved. Here we were, cutting open an animal while it was still breathing right in front of us. The pressure required to actually cut through the tissue was quite a lot more than I expected. The skin, being incredibly thin and covering the soft abdominal organs, easily deflected into the abdomen, which made using a scalpel quite challenging. It seemed so incredibly easy when the professor did it!
My lab partner and I took turns to continue the incision. There are multiple layers that we have to go through. The thin skin on the top. Below it lies a thicker muscular layer. After making a relatively small incision with the scalpel, we switched over to using scissors. This allows us to protect the internal organs and not worry about stabbing through. Surgery is a very physical discipline after all! The scissors were a lot easier than the scalpel.
We extended the incision caudally without any issue. However, my lab partner met some serious resistance when extending the incision superiorly towards the head. After much struggling, we finally were able to look at what we did, only to be greeted by a bloody mess. We had breached the thoracic cavity. At first we had no idea what we were looking at. It was just all dark red. Only then did we realize what we had done. The lungs had collapsed due to the lack of pressure, essentially an induced pneumothorax.
We immediately called the professor over and explained what happened. He confirmed our suspicions. Importantly, he reassured us that this is what the class is all about. And today was only the first day.
He told us to hold the heart in our fingers and feel its beat. It is truly an emotional experience.
The professor came back and calmly explained the anatomy. The heart beat was becoming more labored. He injected the euthanizing agent directly into the heart, and we watched it slowly stop. Stillness. A moment of reflection.
To be honest, I was kind of shaken from that experience. But again the professor urged us to continue and learn. We continued the procedure, looking for the anatomy. We saw the two large kidneys, neatly tucked away behind the intestines. We gently pulled the intestines and ran them through our fingers, examining each fold. The uterus was way longer than I thought it would be! It makes sense, though, as rats carry litters rather than one baby at a time.
But it was truly an incredible learning experience. Just like in any endeavor, it’s worth sharing the lessons that we learned. This is certainly something I will remember for the rest of my life. The rest of the class was smooth sailing.
Dossier
“Doctors make mistakes. Can we talk about that?” by Brian Goldman, November 2011. https://www.ted.com/talks/brian_goldman_doctors_make_mistakes_can_we_talk_about_that?language=en
Winter mornings in New England are not a fun time to walk a half mile without knowing exactly where the hangar is. Walking past the fuel pump and over the wind swept snow piles of the airport apron, we paid careful attention to the numbers on the hangar doors. The blistering cold wind swept through the gaps of our jackets, sapping away what heat we had in our ears and fingers. We breathed a sigh of relief once we got to the right row and quickly rushed in to get shelter from the wind. That walk was brutal.
Pushing the little door open, we were greeted by the sight of the plane resting cozily inside. A small blue blanket covered the engine to keep it extra toasty. (It just looked so cute, 🙂 and now I really wish I took a picture! [Update: I finally got around to taking a picture of it!) The best part of it? The whole hangar was heated too! What a luxury to have a heated hangar to do our preflight in! While checking the oil, I could feel the heat emanating from the engine block and the smell of hot oil filled the air.
After doing the preflight and passenger briefing, we got ready to tow the plane out of the hangar and into the cold air. It took a few minutes to get the block heater and battery tender unplugged, the main hangar door open, attach the tow bar, and push the plane out. Then we had to get the hangar door closed again and get ourselves seated inside. All in, it was probably around 10 minutes or so from the door first opening.
I say all of this because, when it was time to start the engine, it wouldn’t start. The engine cranked and the prop spun for a few seconds, but nothing. I waited and tried again. And again. And again. This time, I waited a good 30 seconds before trying to let the starter cool down. I fiddled with the mixture and primer. Honestly, I thought we might have to scrub the flight and walk back to the terminal in the cold again! I told my passengers that this might happen, but that we should try a few more times.
Finally, I primed it one more time and leaned the mixture. Turning the key once again, and after a second or two of cranking, the engine finally came to life. Relief flooded the cockpit, and especially myself. I thought back to the first time I flew in this particular plane and we had a similar issue. That time, it took us quite a few tries to get the engine started and it made me nervous. I can only imagine what was going through the minds of my passengers today.
In hindsight, I probably should have familiarized myself with cold start procedures before the flight. I really thought that it would be a breeze with the engine block heater, but no — cold starting really is an art form.
It was only a day after 6 inches of snow fell in central Massachusetts. The whole landscape was covered in a layer of fresh, pure white snow. The timeline here may be confusing, as I flew again later in the day. I will intersperse elements from both flights in the story. But we pick up here at the beginning of the next flight.
For the second flight of the day, we needed to fuel up. I’m used to taxiing up to the self serve fuel, but at this airport, the fuel is full service. We called up the FBO and requested fuel at the hangar. By the time they got there, we had towed the plane out — this time leaving the cute little blanket on the engine to keep it warm and toasty! (I smile every time I think about this. . . 🙂)
Quite a bit easier than having to top up the tanks ourselves! I didn’t think to discuss the leaded fuel with my passengers. After fueling and closing the hangar door, we all hopped on board and got ready to fly. I reviewed the preflight check and realized, whoops, I forgot to sump the fuel. After all the difficulty I had with starting the engine on the earlier flight and the brisk weather, I was seriously tempted to forgo sumping the tanks.
A few seconds later, I snapped out of it. I got out of the plane and checked the fuel tanks for water or other contaminants. It took less than a minute to do that. I scold myself now for even thinking about skipping the fuel check.
We eventually got the engine started. A bit quicker than the morning flight, I might add. Now feeling much more confident, it was easy going towards the city for some sight seeing. Worcester is a Class D airport, meaning that in order to enter, we need to establish two way radio communication. While we don’t need permission to do a city tour, per se, it is good to let the tower know what you’re planning to do. We radioed up Tower and let them know our intentions and were approved.
Overflying the city was beautiful, only intensified by the effusive sunset glow.
During the flight, I made sure to ask my passengers how they were doing several times throughout the flight. Key to this was asking them to rate their feeling on a scale of 1 to 10. This helps bring some objectivity into it. Many people, myself included, report that they’re doing fine even if they’re feeling slightly motion sick or tired. It’s not so bad that they feel the need to change the status from “okay.” As pilots, this is not a good situation. It means that passengers are not comfortable. This is a tip I learned from Flight Chops.
Funny story, I forgot to switch on the heat! I didn’t realize until half way when it got quite cold in the cockpit. At least we were all wearing jackets 😛
Flying at night is incredibly beautiful. To see the lights of the city off in the distance and the moonlight glinting off of the small lakes and ponds scattered throughout the eastern half of Massachusetts was an amazing opportunity. For practical reasons — night illusions, navigation, terrain avoidance — it’s a completely different ballgame than flying during the day.
I vividly remember looking out to my right over Boston. Flying further north, I saw the ocean beyond and the immense inky blackness that loomed over the right wing, occasionally interrupted by the glimmers of aircraft landing at Logan. From that first captivating night flight from Mansfield, MA to Portsmouth, NH and back, I’ve continued to look up at the night sky scanning for the red and green navigation lights, yearning to again experience the still night air and glimmering lights.
Because I haven’t flown at night since my training, I wanted to do a night currency flight. So I booked the plane on a Saturday evening and read up on night illusions. After reading about the “black hole,” and the ensuing spatial disorientation, that killed JFK Jr. off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard, it’s no wonder that night flying is a part of our training as pilots.
Later that week, I arrived at the airport. One of the instructors at the local flight school checked me in and kindly showed me how to operate the hangar lights and door. What a luxury to have a hangar to do the preflight in on a frigid December evening!
I unplugged the engine block heater and the battery tender. After putting my bag on the back seat, I pulled out my checklist. Running through the flow, I noticed that the position / navigation lights didn’t switch on, only the strobes.
FAR Part 91.205 defines the minimum required equipment to fly during the day and at night. There’s an acronym pilots use to to remember this: ATOMATOFLAMES, FLAPS. The first, ATOMATOFLAMES is the minimum required equipment for the day. In the night, we also add FLAPS, which stands for Fuses, Landing lights (if flying for hire), Anti-collision lights, Position lights, and Source of electricity (i.e. alternator/generator).
The position lights help other pilots determine which direction an aircraft is heading. For example, if only the green and white light are visible, we can deduce that the aircraft is traveling from left to right. If both are visible, the aircraft is heading towards us.
This particular aircraft is equipped with strobes. I held my hand in front of them so I could better see the bulbs of the adjacent position lights. Perhaps the filaments were broken, I thought to myself. I messed with the brightness wheel and tried a bunch of combinations of switches, but I couldn’t figure it out. Resorting to the only solution that I had, I called up the instructor I spoke to earlier. Luckily he had just gotten in his car and hadn’t left the airport premises yet.
He spent the next 25 minutes trouble shooting the issue. All to no avail. Neither of us could figure it out. He called up one of the other instructors with more knowledge, and on the phone I heard him saying, “I’ve got a pilot here who’s trying to do his night currency, but the nav light is inop.”
Wow! It was really strange to be called a pilot now rather than a student!
He suggested to start the engine and see if that solved the problem. Perhaps it was a power issue and the battery wasn’t able to supply enough current to get the incandescent bulbs going. As he was leaving, however, he tacitly explained that the strobe lights would quite easily make up for the inoperative position lights in terms of visibility to other aircraft.
While he’s not technically wrong, it’s certainly not something that I would be comfortable doing! I ended up canceling the flight and listed the issue as a squawk so it could hopefully get resolved by the mechanic in the near future.
I fly for fun, so there’s no point in even coming close to crossing that line. Once you cross it for something so trivial as this, the whole line becomes blurred. When it matters, it becomes easy to trot into dangerous territory. I’m only flying as a hobby, so there’s no reason to add any unnecessary risk, even for something as minor as this. As Steve from Flight Chops explains, a rule is meant to alleviate the burden of making difficult decisions. You make the decision in advance and stick to it.
Now, with the benefit of hindsight, it turns out that the position lights are wired to the avionics bus, which means that in order to get them to switch on, the avionics master switch must also be on. I found it kind of strange that the position lights are wired differently than the strobe lights, but it might have something to do with the ADSB-out beacon that needed to be retrofitted to meet the 2020 requirements.
Ultimately, it was a great learning experience.
Dossier
“The Drama of Flight: One Radio Call at a Time,” by David Mamet, February 1, 2019. https://www.flyingmag.com/drama-flight-one-radio-call-at-time/
As an aside, let me know if you would be interested in more posts like this. If it provides a unique or valuable perspective, it would be fun to write more about each flight and the lessons contained within.
I want to avoid the “purple prose” of aviation writing, as David Mamet put it in Flying. To him — and I’m inclined to agree — “the drama of flight does not take place between the pilot and the environment, but between the airplane and the pilot, and between the pilot and himself.”
One interesting concept would be to create an online companion to the digital debriefs that I designed to distribute to my passengers after a flight. It could be akin to the idea of the expedition journal that I’m so enamored by. I’m inspired by the National Geographic Field Notes expedition blog and the Medical School 2020 book.
Edit: I later was able to night flying and have included the video here.