I’ll be honest, when I first unwrapped the shining silver spectacle that was my Seiko Chronograph, I didn’t like it. I appreciated it — a gift from my parents given on the day I finally earned Eagle Scout — but I didn’t like it.
It was beautiful; sleek midnight-blue face-plate punctuated every twenty degrees with golden slivers that glittered in the sun. A shimmering clasp-closed stainless steel wrist-band and hands that were visible by day or night. No alarm, no beeps or boops, just twelve hours and the date laid out in a way that was elegant, but functional. It was a man’s watch, and it was given to me as a symbol of my having reached adulthood.
But of course, it was only a symbol, for a boy has not become a man until he’s able to recognize the wisdom of his parents, and sitting there in the early morning light I thought there’d surely been a mistake.
The watch was beautiful, but it wasn’t for me. I didn’t live a life with room for beautiful things. I was an adventurer. A swashbuckling, bear-fighting, road-tramping dirtbag, or at least, that’s what I aspired to. In two weeks’ time I’d be embarking on a four-hundred mile kayaking journey. There would be rain, and mud, and blood, and hillbillies. Certainly no place for such a fine watch. And so while I appreciated it, I didn’t truly love it. Not then.
But my parents told me to hang onto it, for the day would come when I’d need to dress and act like an adult. I had my doubts. But of course, they were right.
It was two years before I had it properly sized; two links removed in preparation for a job I’d taken at Yale. Three months in, the timepiece, and the job, felt more like a shackle than an opportunity, and it wasn’t long before I left to pursue work as an adventure filmmaker.
In 2012 I nearly hawked it to buy a dive-watch. I was headed for a new life in Hawaii, and everything I owned needed either to fit into my backpack, or be sold, donated, or thrown away. The far-flung pacific islands seemed once again like no place for such a fine piece of craftsmanship, and after nearly half a decade of limited use, I was almost convinced it was time to part ways with the old Seiko.
But then, it surprised me. I noticed something I hadn’t seen before, printed right there on the face of it. A tiny inscription; 100M. Could that possibly be meters, I wondered, and sure enough I flipped it over to find Water Resistant 10 Bar stamped into the back. A quick Google search revealed that 10 Bar water resistance is quite suitable for swimming and even light snorkeling. I cracked a little smile. It wasn’t a dive watch, but my little Seiko was better suited to me than I thought.
We started hanging out more often.
Life continued on, and I started a business. Girls came into the picture. The way I dressed got smarter and smarter. My watch and I became pretty good pals.
It’s been nearly eight years since I first caught sight of how the hour markers glittered in the sun, and today both the watch and I are very different than we were when we first met. We’re both a good deal smaller in circumference, it by three links, I by more than twenty pounds. We’ve both got our scars too. The second hand on the chronograph doesn’t reset perfectly to twelve, an injury sustained during the one and only battery changing the watch has needed during our time together. The clasp is scratched and marred from reaching into my pocket for the keys to the four cars, five cell-phones, and countless dollar bills, movie tickets, pocket-knives, packs of gum, pens, notebooks, and house keys that have come into and gone out of my life over the last few years.
But each scratch is in some small way a reminder of the adventures we’ve had. The time we navigated a sailboat between reefs out in Kaneohe Bay, dinners with friends aboard the Queen Mary 2, stowing away on the Coast Starlight Express to San Francisco, and many more. And the watch still surprises me to this day. Indeed, the reason I sat down to write this was because I found a new feature just this afternoon, a tachymeter used to measure distance and speed, staring me right in the face all these years but completely unnoticed.
I still fight bears sometimes. But mostly I wrestle words onto the page. Bears, in many ways, were easier. At this point in time, I’m living out of a backpack, traveling through the south of England while reconnecting with what it is I truly love to do. It’s not a big backpack, and I can’t fit a lot into it. But there will always be room for my trusty little Seiko.