When I was about 10, I went sailing with my grandfather, Pop, in a small dinghy out into Buzzards' Bay. Our goal was to "salute the fleet," a group of classic one-design sloops known as Shields, setting off to race. The sailing was tough—upwind—and our vessel tragically unworthy. Pop was strict, especially about rules, especially nautical ones.
As I sat in the bow, we approached one of the racing boats. We were on a starboard tack; they were on a port tack. Starboard tack vessels have the right of way. But this particular boat was four times our length and preparing to race. Pop rammed right into it, shouting "Starboard!" all the way to impact. He then bellowed, "Just being a Shields doesn't give you the right of way!"
The experience rattled me. When we returned to shore, I recounted the ordeal to my dad, Pop's son. He shook his head and said, "Your grandfather believes in being 'dead right.'" In other words, you might be right, but you're dead.
Dead right is something I often talk about with my kids. It's a natural craving. I am right, and I want those who are wrong to know it and acknowledge it. It's seductive.
Where have you felt the allure of dead right? Wherever you do, it's useful to pay attention. It's a potential blind spot. A place where you might be missing some critical perspective. As Epictetus said, "you can't learn what you already know."