Jackson M.-L. is a man who spends his Tuesdays inside a Level A vapor-protective suit, navigating the literal and metaphorical sludge of industrial accidents. As a hazmat disposal coordinator, his life is defined by the integrity of seals and the reliability of gaskets.
He understands, perhaps better than anyone I have ever met, the relationship between a piece of equipment and the survival of the person using it. Yet, there he was on a humid Thursday night, standing over an open Rimowa suitcase, paralyzed by the weight of 19 ounces of stainless steel and sapphire crystal.
Sardinia Itinerary
“A jagged sequence of rocky beach coves, saltwater spray, and evening Negronis in crowded piazzas.”
On the bed lay three watches, a collection that had taken him roughly to assemble. The first was a modern diving icon, a beast of a machine rated to depths that Jackson would never visit unless his suit failed in a very specific and catastrophic way. The second was a GMT-Master, designed for the golden age of jet travel, its bezel a crisp ceramic circle of blue and black. The third was a heritage chronograph, a tribute to drivers who bled gasoline in .
The Friction of Ownership
Jackson picked up the diver. He felt the weight, the familiar click of the bezel-a sound he usually found meditative. Then he thought about the limestone cliffs of Orosei. He thought about the microscopic grains of sand that act like industrial abrasives. He thought about the 29 different ways a spring bar could fail if he took a tumble into the surf. He put the watch back in its velvet-lined slot.
“Sardinia in July is a soup of sweat and sea air.”
He moved to the GMT. It was beautiful, but the polished center links were magnets for the kind of “character” he wasn’t sure he wanted to pay for. Then there was the airport. He’d read 99 different horror stories on forums about enthusiasts being targeted for their wrists before they even cleared the taxi stand. The chronograph was out of the question; it didn’t even have a screw-down crown.
In the end, Jackson M.-L., a man who manages toxic waste for a living, reached into the back of his sock drawer. He pulled out a quartz piece he’d found in a thrift store for $19. It was scratched, the lume was a dead, sickly yellow, and the plastic strap smelled faintly of old gym lockers. He strapped it on, zipped his suitcase, and felt a wave of relief so profound it bordered on the pathetic.
This is the central absurdity of the modern luxury watch era. We have spent the last perfecting the “tool watch” only to render it entirely useless by virtue of its own success. We have engineered these objects to survive the vacuum of space and the crushing darkness of the Mariana Trench, yet we find them increasingly unable to survive a trip to the grocery store or a weekend in a coastal town.
The Custodian’s Premium
I found myself falling into this same trap last week. I was comparing prices of two identical vintage chronographs online. One was listed for $7,999. It was beautiful, but it had “life” on it-a faded dial, a few nicks on the lugs, the honest wear of a watch that had actually timed things.
A $6,000 premium for the privilege of being terrified to wear the object.
The other was $13,999. It was “New Old Stock,” a term that essentially means the watch has spent its entire existence in a dark box, like a prisoner of its own perfection. I realized that if I bought the $13,999 version, I would become its janitor. I would be the person guarding its virginity for the next owner.
It’s a strange contradiction. We buy these things because of the stories they tell-stories of Himalayan climbs, of racing victories, of military divers cutting through the dark. But the moment we own them, we strip them of the ability to create new stories. We turn them into “assets.” It’s hard to enjoy a sunset when you’re constantly checking to see if your wrist just brushed against a stone wall.
Jackson told me that when he finally got to Sardinia, he spent the first 9 hours of his vacation jumping off a pier into the Mediterranean. He didn’t rinse the watch. He didn’t check for fogging under the crystal. He didn’t worry about the resale value. He told me that for the first time in , he actually used a watch the way it was intended-as a peripheral thought, a reliable ghost on the wrist that tells you when it’s time for lunch.
“
The luxury watch industry has accidentally participated in a grand act of de-wilding. By moving these pieces from the hardware store to the jewelry boutique, they’ve clipped their wings. The “sports watch” has become an indoor object. It is a submarine that is afraid of the water.
The Museum Curator’s Dilemma
I think about the people who bought these watches in . They weren’t “collectors” in the way we are now. They were guys who needed to know what time it was while they were doing something else. They bought a Submariner because it was a piece of gear, like a good pair of boots or a reliable truck. They didn’t have “travel cases” or “watch rolls.” They had a wrist and a life, and the watch was expected to keep up with both.
We’ve lost that. We’ve traded utility for “condition.” We’ve traded the experience of ownership for the anxiety of preservation. We spend 29 minutes a day scrolling through Instagram looking at photos of watches that are technically “professional tools,” but which are being worn by people who work in climate-controlled offices and take them off before they wash the dishes.
The irony is that the more “rugged” the watch looks, the more we tend to baby it. We want the aesthetic of adventure without the risk of a scratch. We want the spec sheet of a commando but the lifestyle of a museum curator. This gap between what the object is and how we use it is creating a generation of enthusiasts who are starting to realize that the trade-off isn’t working.
This is why I find the approach of places like
so vital. There is a burgeoning movement toward curation that prioritizes the soul of the watch over the sterile perfection of the “investment grade” specimen.
It’s about finding timepieces that haven’t been polished into oblivion or hidden in safes for decades. It’s about recognizing that a watch with a story-even a slightly beat-up one-is infinitely more valuable to the human experience than a pristine one that you’re too scared to take out of the house.
I’m not saying we should all go out and intentionally drag our Speedmasters across gravel. That would be a different kind of performance art, and equally stupid. But there is a middle ground. There is a version of watch collecting where the object serves the wearer, and not the other way around.
Jackson M.-L. returned from his trip with a tan, a few more gray hairs, and the same $19 thrift store watch. He told me he’s thinking of selling the GMT. Not because he doesn’t like it, but because he realized that owning it made him a slightly more anxious version of himself.
He’s looking for something that he can wear while he’s actually living his life. Something that can handle a bit of Sardinia, or a bit of hazmat sludge, without requiring a heart rate monitor. We have to ask ourselves: are we the owners of our things, or are we just the temporary security guards for the next auction house?
If you have a watch that you love but you can’t wear to the beach because of “the humidity,” then you don’t really have a watch. You have a very expensive thermometer that only tells you the temperature of your own fear.
“A watch that doesn’t tick on a moving wrist is just a very small, very expensive tombstone.”
I think about that $13,999 New Old Stock chronograph. Somewhere, in a dark box, its lubricants are slowly drying out. Its seals are becoming brittle. It is “perfect,” and yet it is dying.
Next time you pack for a trip, or even just for a Tuesday, try to pick the watch that makes you feel the most capable, not the most wealthy. Pick the one that you wouldn’t mind seeing in a photo from now, even if it has a few more scratches on the bezel. Because those scratches are the only proof that you were actually there.
A Small Act of Rebellion
Jackson still keeps his diving watch in the safe, but he told me he took it out the other day just to wear while he was mowing the lawn. It was a start. A small, act of rebellion against the tyranny of “mint condition.”
He hit a stone, a small pebble flew up and nicked the side of the case, and for a second, he flinched. But then he looked at the mark, looked at the grass, and kept on pushing. It was just a watch, after all. And for the first time in a long time, it was finally his.
The industry will keep selling us the dream of the “extreme” tool, and we will likely keep buying it. But the real luxury isn’t the depth rating or the precious metal.
The real luxury is the ability to forget you’re wearing it at all, to trust the machine enough to let it do its job while you go about the business of doing yours.
Whether that business is disposing of toxic chemicals or just finding the perfect place to jump into the sea. In the end, the only time that matters is the time you actually spend living. Everything else is just counting the seconds in a cage.