About fifteen years ago, my watch hobby settled into what I assumed would be its final form. I became captivated by Seiko mechanical dive watches. Five years later, the obsession grew more specific. I wanted faithful recreations of Seiko’s 1960s divers mounted on vintage-inspired Waffle and Tropic straps. My collection had quietly become an altar to the Sixties.
Only recently did I realize what was really happening.
I wasn’t merely wearing watches.
I had unknowingly enlisted in a historical reenactment society.
Some people spend weekends dressed as Viking warriors, Roman legionaries, or Revolutionary War soldiers. My costume was different. Every morning I buckled on a diver’s watch and imagined myself inhabiting the glamorous mythology of 1960s adventure. Somewhere in my unconscious mind, Sean Connery had never stopped speeding across Caribbean waters with Honey Ryder in Dr. No. I wasn’t collecting timepieces. I was practicing what I now call Sean Connery Chic.
For years I believed that was the inevitable destination of my hobby.
It wasn’t.
My mechanical divers excelled at one thing above all others: charisma.
Imagine owning a pristine 1963 Corvette. Park it anywhere, and people gather around it with reverence. They admire its curves. They photograph it. They dream about it.
Then they ask the owner what it’s like to drive every day.
That’s when the romance collides with reality.
The vintage Corvette leaks fluids with aristocratic indifference. It rattles. It drinks gasoline like a sailor on shore leave. Its electrical system views reliability as an optional feature. The air conditioning, if present at all, merely stirs warm air with admirable optimism. Safety equipment consists largely of hope. The seats regard lumbar support as a dangerous modern innovation. Every outing is equal parts transportation and mechanical negotiation.
My mechanical divers occupied much the same territory.
On the Charisma Scale, they scored a perfect ten.
On the Reliability, Accuracy, Comfort, and Practicality Scale, they were lucky to earn a two.
That realization forced me to rethink my collection.
A man can admire vintage Corvettes.
He probably shouldn’t own only vintage Corvettes.
I needed a second car garage.
One garage would house nostalgia.
The other would embrace optimization.
I realized this about six months ago when I opened the box containing a G-Shock Frogman, the GWF-1000, and knew within seconds that I had experienced what every collector hopes for but rarely enjoys.
It was a No-Doubter.
If you’re unfamiliar with watch addiction, a No-Doubter is the rare purchase that requires no rationalization. You don’t inspect it for flaws. You don’t reassure yourself that you’ll grow into it. You simply know.
Its evil twin is the Flop-Sweater.
That’s the watch that disappoints you before you’ve even peeled the plastic from the crystal. During the unboxing video, your smile grows increasingly artificial while your palms begin to perspire. Halfway through the presentation, you’re already calculating how much money you’ll lose when you sell it.
Fortunately, the Frogman inspired none of that.
Instead, it introduced me to a dangerous new pleasure: atomic timekeeping.
Its Multi-Band 6 receiver synchronizes nightly with the atomic clock transmitter in Fort Collins, Colorado. Once you’ve experienced waking each morning to a watch that is essentially perfect to the second, ordinary accuracy begins to feel strangely primitive. Precision is addictive. Let me repeat that. Just as a watch enthusiast can become addicted to watches, that same enthusiast can become addicted to precision. Once your standards rise, they refuse to descend. I think that might be the central lesson of this essay.
Then came comfort.
Despite their imposing dimensions, G-Shocks are astonishingly light. Their bulky resin cases look as though they should feel like cinder blocks, yet they practically disappear on the wrist.
Then came engineering.
G-Shocks delight the inner nerd because they are gloriously overbuilt. Owning one feels like driving a supercar at the speed limit. You know you’ll never exploit its full capabilities, but the mere knowledge that they’re available is oddly satisfying.
Finally, I confronted the matter of identity.
My Seiko divers whispered, “Sean Connery.”
My G-Shocks announced something entirely different.
They belonged to the world of search-and-rescue teams, police sergeants, firefighters, football coaches, military instructors, and engineers who trust equipment more than appearances.
This wasn’t Sean Connery Chic.
It was Action Hero Chic.
To my surprise, I liked the role.
The Frogman was quickly joined by three other atomic G-Shocks: the King with its gloriously legible positive display, the Mudman GW-9500 with its billboard-sized numerals, and the dependable Rescue GW-7900.
Then there is my lone non-atomic outlier, the Mudman G-9300.
Ironically, it has become my hotel watch.
Hotels are surprisingly adept at blocking the radio signal that keeps my atomic watches synchronized, so the G-9300, which gains only about ten seconds per month, has earned a permanent place in my travel rotation.
People sometimes ask whether my mechanical divers and G-Shocks compete with one another.
They don’t.
To compare them is to commit a category error.
One collection points backward toward romance, mythology, and nostalgia.
The other points forward toward precision, engineering, and optimization.
Both satisfy something genuine within me.
Jay Leno doesn’t own one garage because one kind of automobile cannot express every facet of his enthusiasm.
Why, then, should I expect one watch box to tell the whole story of mine?
About fifteen years ago, my watch hobby evolved in a way that my interests became focused on Seiko mechanical divers. Then about five years ago, the interest intensified so that I wanted the 1960s recreation Seiko divers on vintage straps, such as Waffle or Tropic designs. It would seem that my watch hobby pointed to the romantic nostalgia of the 60s. My childhood of watching Sean Connery wearing Submariners had apparently gotten into my unconscious mind. So I was no longer just wearing a watch. I was unwittingly part of a historical re-enactment society. I wasn’t doing Viking, World War II, or Roman soldier cosplay. I was living out the fantasy of being my childhood movie icon Sean Connery speeding on a motorboat with Honey Ryder in Dr. No. As far as my watch hobby goes, I thought this is it. I’m locked into Sean Connery Chic. Those three words capture the essence of my hobby.
My hobby was largely characterized by a specific style. As far as the watch goes, nostalgia was the primary priority. Accuracy was not the priority. My watches are the equivalent of owning a 1963 Corvette. They score a 10 on the Charisma Scale. But for reliability, comfort, safety, and function, they score a 2.
As soon as I saw my mechanical divers as having a vintage Corvette, I knew I needed to branch out. I wanted one car garage to have my vintage cars for nostalgia purposes. But I needed another car garage that connected me to the modern world of function and optimization.
I realized this six months ago when I bought a G-Shock Frogman. When I opened it out of the box and beheld the industrial beauty of its resin material, I knew instantly that it was a No-Doubter. For those of you who are new to the watch hobby, a No-Doubter is when you immediately know you got a winner. The opposite is called Flop-Sweater, when you know the watch sucks and you’re going to have to flip it for a loss. You’re literally perspiring on the YouTube video during your unboxing.
So the Frogman in question, the GWF-1000, is Multiband-6, which means it syncs every night with the atomic tower in Ft. Collins, Colorado. Once I got a taste of atomic accuracy, it was hard to go back. Having the precise time will spoil you and establish a standard that you don’t want to deviate from.
There’s also the comfort. These G-Shocks have monster-sized girth, but they are light on the wrist. I barely feel them. So now I’ve got accuracy and comfort.
Then there’s the pleasure of knowing these G-Shocks are over-engineered. You’re getting more technology than you’ll ever need, a fact that tickles your Inner Nerd. You’re like the guy who drives the speed limit, but you know you could go 200 miles an hour if you wanted to.
Finally, there’s the matter of style. With G-Shock, I had to give up Sean Connery Chic because my G-Shocks are another kind of persona altogether. They are Action Hero Chic, Law Enforcement Sergeant, and Football Coach Authority watches, and I’m totally cool with that.
So in addition to the Frogman, I got three other Multiband-6 G-Shocks, the King with positive display; the Mudman GW-9500 with its oversized numerals; and the Rescue GW-7900.
I also have one non-atomic G-Shock, the Mudman G-9300. It’s only gaining about 10 seconds a month. It is good to bring on vacations where you’ll be staying at a hotel because hotels are notorious for having the kind of structures and radio interference that will block your atomic sync. So I have found a purpose for my GW-7900.
I don’t see my mechanical divers as competing with my G-Shocks. To compare them would be to make a category error. One category points to the nostalgia of the past; the other category points to the optimization of the future.
Just as Jay Leno has more than one car garage, I can have more than one watch box.
Cinemorphosis 
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