Burning Down the House

Let it all go up in smoke (except my Doxa)

There’s a fairly well known thought exercise that asks the theoretical question: “if your house was on fire, what would you grab to take with you?” I’ve gone on record saying that, as long as my wife and I get out safely, and I have a watch—any watch—on my wrist, everything else can burn. I don’t attach much value, sentimental or otherwise to the stuff I own. This may sound like I’m trying to appear more ascetic and high minded than I am, but in reality, when I look around me now, I see a lot of things that hold great memories, but also things with which I’ve had enough time. They can go. There’s always homeowner’s insurance to recoup some of the monetary loss. In some ways, it might even be freeing to start fresh. Have you ever spent time in a sparsely furnished loft apartment or cabin in the woods and thought, “I could get used to this”? Yeah, I do all the time. 

Irreplaceable.

Would I miss a few things? Sure. The 1913 Gilbert mantle clock that was on my grandparents’ shelf when I was a little kid and is now (or will be again soon, after a well needed servicing) ticking and chiming on our own mantle. It is the definition of irreplaceable. They simply don’t make them anymore, and haven’t for close to a century. My recently departed grandpa’s Hamilton pocketwatch from 1922 is nestled in a velvet pouch in my drawer.  Also irreplaceable. The ice axe I used on Mount Rainier back in 2013 hangs above my desk, reminding me of how ill suited I am to high altitudes but also of what six months of training can yield in physical and psychological rewards. My framed full size (1/8’’:1 foot) reproduction of the engineering sketch of HMS Hermes, still the crowning achievement in my diving career, also hangs in my office, and one day when I’m done diving I can still revisit those days of deep swimming. These are heirlooms and mementoes, tangible representations of the images burned in my brain from more adventuresome years.

There are also more practical items I’d miss with which I’ve formed a bond over years of regular use. A now discontinued, and rather well built, espresso machine I bought in the ‘90s faithfully keeps me caffeinated every day and I’ve grown rather fond of its hissing and sputters. I hope when I climb down the ladder from our bedroom as the flames rise, I’m first able to slide on my Blundstone boots because they’re just about the most versatile and comfortable footwear I’ve owned. My Barbour International waxed jacket, bought a couple decades ago, has been on adventures with me in Iceland and Wales and is finally broken in. And, come on, my old Land Rover is a vehicle I deeply love for all the trouble it’s gotten me into, and out of. Still I’d be happy to find any of these again and start the process over. Or simply revel wistfully in the memories of them. It’s hard to climb down a ladder carrying an espresso machine anyway.

Beloved Blunnies.

The rest of what litters our home is made up of books (a lot of books), creature comforts, too many jackets, boots and sweaters, camping, diving, skiing, and biking gear, and a lot of odd knick-knacks. These are things that bring me pleasure to lay eyes on from time to time, or fiddle with— plenty of clocks, an aircraft altimeter, framed maps and posters, an old underwater film camera, a Tibetan singing bowl, a shark’s jaw, complete with rows of sharp teeth, from the naïve days when buying such a souvenir was still OK. Despite the appeal of a minimalist space, I’ve also always loved the cozy, lived-in clutter of an old manor house, or office, with floor to ceiling bookshelves, artifacts brought back from expeditions, and a fire roaring on the grate. I guess it’s why I love to visit The Explorers Club when I’m in New York. Still, it can all burn. I have my memories, and stuff can be replaced. Or not.

Now, despite my above statement about wristwatches, I do hope the one that’s on my wrist when I’m standing across the street watching the smoking roof timbers fall in, is my 1969 Doxa SUB 200 T.Graph Sharkhunter. This might surprise you. After all, I’ve said before that I’d rather have a new watch with which I create my own memories instead of buying someone else’s. I also don’t wear it a lot, often not at all for months at a time. Also, if you’re going to be stuck with only one watch for a while, a big, heavy, old dive chronograph is less than ideal. But my argument here not a pragmatic one. Sure, you could argue a strong case that the old T.Graph is as irreplaceable as my mantle clock or pocketwatch. After all, only a few hundred were built by Doxa in a single calendar year (I’m not counting the modern reproduction). And yes, it’s likely somewhat valuable due to its rarity, which could come in handy if I had to start over with nothing but my boxer shorts and Blundstones. But why I’d want to have this one on my wrist goes deeper than any practical justifications.

Two of my favorite things.

I’m guessing we all have a car, a hat, a pair of shoes, or a watch with which we identify. Call it your “trademark” piece. What would yours be? For McQueen, it was his ref. 5512 Rolex. For William, the future king of England, a blue Omega Seamaster given to him by his mother. For me, if I imagine a photo that represents my overall aesthetic and philosophy of life, I’d probably be wearing some sort of army sweater, that pair of scuffed Blunnies on my feet, perched on the front bumper of a Land Rover, and I’d have this old Doxa on my wrist. It says so much about who I am and what I value. 

The watch is from a brand whose history I’ve long appreciated and studied but not one to which I have an undying loyalty. In fact, I can’t say that I would feel this connection with any of Doxa’s modern watches. The brand now is like so many others, trading on nostalgia and its past reputation as an unostentatious maker of functional instruments. I always liked what Doxa was in the late ‘60s. No one then was buying one for its cachet or resale value or because it appeared on an influencer’s wrist (OK, besides Cousteau). It was the ultimate insider’s watch, a diver’s dive watch.

Deep down.

This 1969 T.Graph represents a slice of watch history that is evident in its very form. I was recently asked by someone to explain the allure of Doxa watches, these bulbous, asymmetric, Baroque blocks of steel. And I can’t. On their own, they’re downright ugly. But this particular Doxa was built for a specific purpose at a time when function trumped stylish appeal. The dwarf hour hand, the huge swaths of luminescent paint on the markers and giant minute hand, the bicolor minute register for 5-minute intervals, the dual marked timing ring that sits proud of the sloping case, the notch on the bezel for easy removal to clean of salt and sand—there are no concessions to comfort or shirt cuff fit. Every aspect was added for a purpose. And the thing is, this watch is from that era when these things were appreciated and used, not simply homages or references to that era. And that’s the important distinction, and where the attraction for it lies.

Aside from this esoteric appeal, the watch also ticks other boxes. I’ve realized over 15 years of collecting and handling hundreds of watches, that I need some sort of widget to keep me interested in one. The Rolex Explorer may have its Everest pedigree, a Hamilton field watch or IWC pilot may be pinnacles of stark, functional minimalism, but they don’t last long on my wrist. Because they don’t do anything! I like dive watches or chronographs, with rotating bezels, push buttons and subdials. This Doxa T.Graph is the best of both worlds: a dive chronograph! It’s a veritable carnival on the wrist. The bezel is tall and grippy, with not one but two scales. It’s a column wheel-actuated chronograph, a pleasure to start, stop, and reset. And it’s a hand-winder, so I get to spin the crown every morning to top off the mainspring reserves. If I wear it on its original steel bracelet, there’s even a spring-loaded clasp with a ratcheting adjustment that is satisfying to click tight. Name another watch that is so much fun.

Oh, and did I mention, it’s a dive watch? Sure, it’s old and getting a vintage watch wet gives some people the cold sweats. But I had it fully serviced a few years ago and it’s been on my wrist deep underwater, which, to me, closes the book on this Doxa’s appeal. If it was a watch I felt I needed to baby or keep hidden away in a safe, then yes, let it burn with the rest. But a watch I never have to take off? I don’t even need to worry about the firehose spray. 

Circa 1971.

This watch lived an entire life before I took possession of it, 50 years on someone else’s wrist. It’s not even a family—my family—heirloom. But I have exchanged emails and phone calls with the original owner, and his story endeared me not only to his watch, but to him. Bill was a kindred soul from a different age, a Midwestern boy with an adventuresome spirit and a sense of imagination. He grew up near where I was born, vacationed where I still do, and learned to dive in a weedy Wisconsin lake like I did. He bought the Doxa from a Chicago dive shop, where he was smitten by its magnetic appeal, its seemingly limitless potential, and a boldness of character that begs its owner to do as much as he dares. “Don’t worry, I can take anything you’ve got,” it seems to say. And he did—diving, waterskiing, sailing, and jumping off his family’s cabin dock in those Kodachrome days of the early 1970s. The evidence of Bill’s adventures can be seen in the spiderweb scratches on the bezel, the golden brown of the hands (which still glow faintly!) and the sizable dings in the weathered steel case. Having worn it myself for three years now, I can no longer tell which patina was from Bill’s adventures and which are from mine.

You might have been surprised to read my gushing appreciation of this well worn, old ugly duckling. Perhaps you thought the watch I’d want over all others would have been my 40th birthday Rolex, or my “one watch” candidate Seamaster. Certainly those would be fine choices to have on when fleeing the flames. They’re probably more versatile, better built (although it’s tough to beat a five decade run), and would serve me longer. And I would miss them. But, in the end, I made some good memories with them and they could be replaced with similar examples. I also feel that they don’t capture who I am as well as this homely but rugged underdog. Is the Doxa my “one watch”? Not necessarily. That feels like a separate discussion with different criteria, more pragmatic perhaps. My daily wrist choices tend to go for modern divers with good lume and slim comfort—my Tornek-Rayville, CWC, or Bremont. And if I happen to be wearing one of those when the smoke alarm sounds, I’m not braving the flames to grab anything else. But when I’m hunkered down under the foil blanket on the curb, if this old T.Graph is on my wrist, don’t worry, I’m good. Pass the marshmallows. 

**Note to my insurance company and the local fire department: this was a purely rhetorical exercise and I have no intention of burning down our house.