My Week in Oahu with the Seiko SPB143

As a watch obsessive, my Hawaiian packing list starts with one burning question: which watch gets the honor? The choice was obvious—it would be a diver. That’s not a bold decision; it’s the only category I own. And it would be a Seiko, naturally, because my watch box is a one-brand dictatorship.

I admire other marques—Citizen, G-Shock, Omega, Tudor—but I don’t mix brands. It’s not snobbery; it’s a survival mechanism. Introducing another brand into my rotation feels like switching from German chocolate cake to lemon meringue mid-bite. I like lemon pie, but the chocolate-coconut symphony is wrecked. My horological palate is scrambled.

Call it idiosyncrasy, call it neurosis—either way, I’m trying to be crazy about watches without tipping into full padded-cell territory.

For Oahu, I strapped on my Seiko SPB143. Wore it for a week straight. By day three, I was smitten; by day seven, besotted. Sleek, comfortable, unpretentious—like the rare friend who doesn’t demand you upgrade your personality. I’d stroll through the tropical paradise of Honolulu and stop mid-step to admire the dial. My family no longer asks. Dad’s just off in his little watch trance again.

And yet, as soon as I got home, I was ready to swap it out. Turns out my “One and Done” fantasy is a sham. Every watch, no matter how perfect, eventually needs a pinch-hitter.

While in Honolulu, I kept tabs on the local horological fauna. Ninety-five percent of the tourists wore smartwatches. It’s not a trend; it’s a coup. They’ve paired with the phone—ubiquitous, addictive—and won the war. Wearing a mechanical diver made me a walking anachronism, an analog lighthouse in a digital tsunami.

I’m used to that. I still play an acoustic Yamaha piano, tuned by 76-year-old Cecil, who informs me there’s now only one piano-tuning school in America. Digital keyboards are coming for his livelihood the way smartwatches came for mine.

I’m no Luddite—I read on a Kindle, let AI red-pen my prose, and churn content on YouTube and WordPress. But I keep three analog sanctuaries: my mechanical watches, my Yamaha piano, and my kettlebells. They’re my stubborn tether to the tangible world.

Oahu itself blindsided me. I’ve been to Kauai and Maui, but Oahu’s mix of international energy, relaxed hospitality, and infrastructure that doesn’t buckle under tourism made me wonder if it’s my new favorite. I met Mark, a guitarist at Tommy Bahama’s, and Zach, a world-class golf caddie, both of whom swore by the lush northeast of the Big Island. I’m already looking at $600-a-night resorts.

My family’s proud I can now fly to Hawaii or Miami without melting down in the cabin. Claustrophobia and flying anxiety used to keep me grounded, but I’ve discovered the cure: Audible books and noise-canceling headphones. Five hours in the air is fine; six is mutiny. Europe is off the table. I apologize to my family, but at least I’m better than John Madden—he wouldn’t get on a plane at all.

Now I’m home. Technically. Physically. But mentally? Still on the lanai. That’s the thing about vacation—it’s sacred time, separate from the profane ticking of everyday life. When you come back, you don’t really come back. The connection to your family, to yourself, to paradise—it lingers, stubborn as a tan line. And the older you get, the harder it is to shake.

So yes, I’m back. But I’m also already gone—scanning Big Island resorts, plotting my next escape, and quietly wondering if, one day, I just won’t return at all.