Aqualandia
The undying appeal of the last great diver’s watch
By now, my fickleness and promiscuity with dive watches are well known. Just scroll through the archive of posts here on Swimpruf and you’ll see me gushing over an Aquastar one month, an Omega the next, then a Doxa. My pronouncements of love for this rotating roster of favorites read like a teenage girl’s diary, with bold statements tossed around, like “keeper,” and, “if my house was burning, I want this one on my wrist…” Well, brace yourself for another episode of the soap opera: my latest crush happens to also have been one of my first, the legendary Citizen Aqualand.
The original Aqualand debuted when I was a freshman in high school, 1985. For reference, I wrote term papers on a Brother word processor that had a small digital display showing the line of text I typed. When I hit the RETURN key, it would hammer it out on to the paper. Cutting edge stuff (the word processor, not my writing).
To further date myself, that year I also took a computer class in BASIC programming, whipping up such groundbreaking functions as:
10 PRINT “Jason”
20 GOTO 10
RUN
Jason
Jason
Jason
Jason
…
Yes, I’m old, but more significantly, the Aqualand is a watch that is squarely of my era. While so many of the other icons of diver history hail from the 1950s, ‘60s, and ‘70s, the Citizen is a watch that came of age when I did. To wear it is not to borrow some nostalgic font, posh Swiss pedigree, slow ticking automatic movement, and domed acrylic crystal of my parents’ generation. It is a watch that reflects the 1980s—analog-digital display (just like my word processor!), multiple functions, Japanese. Quartz! This was the decade of big change before the decade of even bigger change. There was still an innocence and optimism to the technology and the Aqualand bristled with it. As I’ve written elsewhere, in my mind, it was the last of the true tool dive watches, bought to be used for a specific purpose, and a bridge to an entirely new era of diving technology.
Of course, in 1985, I was completely ignorant to the world of diving, and of watches. I was mildly afraid of the deep end of the swimming pool, never could perform a headfirst dive (I still can’t), and was, to my best recollection, wearing some sort of cheap Armitron digital watch. It wasn’t until the summer before graduation that I really discovered watches and the power they can imbue their wearer. If the Armitron was me holding hands with a girl, my first Seiko was a first kiss, one I’ll never forget. Though the Aqualand came years later for me, it captures the same essence as that Seiko did. Putting it on is like donning a cape, a cowboy hat, or pair of aviator sunglasses. As my friend, James Stacey told me, “it makes me feel tougher.”
Two years after high school, I took a road trip with my friend, Chris, over to northern Michigan. We camped, we hiked, we drank beer, and, most significantly, we experienced our first shipwreck. It was the Francisco Morazan, a freighter that had run aground off the shore of South Manitou Island in Lake Michigan. In my memory the wreck is bigger, further away and sitting in much deeper water than it probably is, but at the time it was the grandest adventure we could have imagined, swimming a hundred yards offshore in cold, choppy water to climb around the rusting hulk of this derelict ship. I had my Seiko on my wrist, which no doubt gave me the superpowers needed to swim well past the imaginary deep end of the pool. Looking back, I like to think I left for that trip a boy and returned a man, on to a life of further adventures and a continually refined sense of who I was and what I wanted to do with my years ahead.
Why do I bring up this story in an article about a watch I wasn’t even wearing? Because the Aqualand captures the innocence and ambition of that humble adventure: two young friends, not yet jaded by life’s wins and losses, careers, mortgages, wives and kids, cars and more expensive watches. Chris recently told me that after that trip, he returned home, learned to scuba dive, and bought his first Citizen Aqualand with money earned as a fry cook. He still has that watch.
Many watch enthusiasts hold their noses at battery powered quartz timepieces, and even more at the presence of a digital display (OK, G-Shock seems to get a pass). But some of my favorite watches are analog-digital quartz, and all hail from the 1980s: the vaunted Chronosport Sea Quartz UDT, the Breitling Aerospace and Emergency, the Seiko H558 (the “Arnie”), and Citizen’s air-land-sea trio, the Aerochron, the Altichron, and the Aqualand. When they were released, these watches represented an entirely new genre of purpose-built instrument that capitalized on the most cutting edge technology and with no concession to tradition or nostalgia or luxury. Seen on someone’s wrist, any one of them presents a completely different image and new “rules of engagement,” if you will. These aren’t the “hey, look at the bevels on the case, and the finishing of the dial” kinds of watches. They instead conjure speculation about the wearer’s exploits, whether on the top of a mountain, the deck of an aircraft carrier, a deep wreck, or inserted behind enemy lines. These are watches that beckon—no, insist—that their owners get out and do stuff. And that fits squarely into my “watches as gear” ethos.
You might assume that with the advent of connected, so-called “smart” watches that these analog-digital watches would be long obsolete. But the funny thing is, with the exception of the Sea Quartz (Chronosport is no more), all are still in their brands’ current lineups today. Sure, most of them are offered now as nostalgic throwbacks, but that doesn’t detract from their functionality. Two time zones, alarms, a chronograph, a depth gauge and dive log (!) are all features that remain eminently useful in everyday life. Heck, most smartwatches now offer the same feature set, but then require regular battery recharging and the dubious addition of Bluetooth connectivity and activity tracking. Aqualand owners don’t need no stinking activity tracking. Just try to keep up with them.
On the wrist, the Aqualand is an oddity. The most obvious reason for that is the bulbous depth sensor on the left flank. It juts out with such prominence that it is impossible to ignore, catching on sleeves and making the watch a full 10 millimeters wider than it would be without it. Would I want it without the depth sensor? Absolutely not. It is the watch’s calling card, like Cindy Crawford’s beauty mark, Blofeld’s cat, Samson’s hair. It is also what makes the Aqualand an Aqualand and not merely a Promaster diver. To delete it would not only strip the watch of its strength, but detract from its distinctive appearance. Similarly, to update the Aqualand for a new generation, with Bluetooth connectivity and enhanced feature set would, in my mind, be a step backwards. As it exists, it is the perfect balance of function and simplicity. The only concession to modernity I’d be willing to accept is perhaps a solar charged Eco-Drive movement inside, but even that would then do away with the proud “Quartz” text on the dial, a holdover from those optimistic ‘80s, when having a quartz watch was the epitome of accuracy and reliability.
I now own two Aqualands: a first generation watch that dates to its first year of production, 1985, and the most recent iteration, a ref. JP2007-17W. The two share identical dimensions and features, but the latter sports a dark grey PVD case and a fully lumed custard cream dial. The watch is not available in North America, so I had to buy it off of eBay. I won’t lie, this watch has scarcely left my wrist for more than a day since I received it back in June. Wearing it calls back the energy and optimism of the 1980s, and my youth, looking ahead to adventures not yet planned or done. It also feels, pardon my French, incredibly badass. Worn on the provided rippled rubber strap (24 millimeters wide!), the watch makes me want to go do something daring. And I have already worn it swimming laps across the lake down the street from our house, braving the hidden Krakens and sea serpents in its weedy depths, running the mean streets before dawn, and diving shipwrecks in Lake Michigan. This all in the first month.
As bewitching as the new Aqualand is, it doesn’t hold a candle to the power of the original. On the old ref. C020, the “Citizen” name is tinier on the dial (no need to shout ), the matte black dial a bit faded, those huge markers bright green, that fluorescent orange minute hand and the deep etching on the case—“MODE,” “SET,” “SELECT.” Oh, and the strap, perhaps the most perfect and iconic rubber dive strap ever made, with the jangly metal keepers, long tail, and the No Deco Limits markings printed in yellow right on it, for quick reference anywhere, anytime. This would be Neptune’s own dive strap, but then Neptune has no limits. I have had this very watch underwater, tracking my dive depth, in Bonaire, the Maldives, and Sri Lanka. It is recognized and worn the world over by dive boat captains, dive shop owners, divemasters, and dive bartenders alike.
I’ve been asked whether I would wear the Aqualand if I wasn’t a diver, and it’s a question that’s difficult for me to answer. I can’t go back to not being a diver. Is it akin to wearing aviator sunglasses or a leather bomber jacket if one is not a pilot? Or driving a Land Rover with a locking differential but never leaving the pavement? The fact is, the majority of the time wearing the Citizen, I’m not in the water and have no need for the depth gauge function. The chronograph gets plenty of use, as does the second time zone, so it is useful on a daily basis. But I think it would bother me to have this obvious appendage on the side of the case, and this dormant function in the watch if I never used it. I take some pleasure in knowing it’s there and I have used it, and to click into the dive log and see the dives I’ve already done recorded there. And in some ways, it feels like a bit of a secret ring or a badge that marks me as a diver.
One thing I know, is that I was not ready for an Aqualand in 1985. Sure, even as a pimply freshman, I had big enough wrists to pull it off. But it took some years of finding myself, taking some risks, having a few adventures, and adding some scars to earn the right to wear one. And now it feels perfectly at home on my wrist—unpretentious, perhaps a bit dated, but still with ample chops to be called upon to perform and take some knocks. And it’s not coming off any time soon.
Few things are cooler than a lume dial, but one of them is a well-loved and well-used old dive watch.
This seals it- I’m def getting one of these new ones. Official #HenchmanWatch?
As a teenager in the ‘80s, I remember seeing ads for the Citizen C020 in magazines and wondered to myself what sort of rugged individual would wear such a timepiece.
Being a former Marine, a retired LEO, a fervent motorcyclist, an avid outdoorsman, and a recreational SCUBA diver, I’ve realized, decades later, that I have become that rugged individual. The article above reminded me that I was lacking the Citizen Aqualand Promaster in my collection and was the catalyst in causing me to purchase a modern JP2000-08E last year!
Thank you for such a great article on such a milestone of a watch, Jason! It’s one of my favorites!
Interestingly, while toggling through the dive functions, I noted that there was a recorded dive on a June 29th around 7pm at around fifty-something meters for about five minutes. I was boggled by this discovery and surmised that perhaps it was a factory pressure test that didn’t get deleted before the watch was packaged up for distribution?