PARASOL PUBS

The Watchmaker’s Heirs

A legacy of capturing moments and moving forward

Seamus Finnegan was a grand old watchmaker, whom I never met.

I am the temporary guardian of his story. A story told to me by his great-grandson in the hopes it may one day be passed to his great-great-grandchildren.

It’s a story about following your dreams, overcoming circumstances, and an endless quest for perfection in the most minute of details. A story about the passage of time, and savouring life’s precious moments along the way.

This is only part of the life story of Seamus Finnegan.

It is a single piece—a timepiece, to be exact.

This is the story of a pocket watch and a legacy of treasuring the passage of time.

“Are you sure this is safe?!”

My best friend Mike’s voice is barely audible from the clifftop above. The words all but lost in the throng of waves crashing against the rocks below, and the wind whistling past my ears.

Climbing along a narrow, jagged path, I wait until I reach a flat rock bed to answer.

Our destination awaits at the end of rocky stepping stones and uneven footholds that hug the face of the cliffs, with little room for error. I peer down at the surging tide swelling beneath my small perch, crashing and breaking over dozens of jagged stones. Each seems to glisten with a warning.

I turn back, surveying the path I had travelled so far, my eyes trailing along the narrow trail and short incline back toward the top of the cliff, where Mike awaited my answer.

“No…but I reckon it’ll be worth it!”

His laughter seems to roar in sync with the crashing waves as he scrambles to catch up with me. We still had enough of that teenage sense of invincibility left in us for ‘worth it’ to be a good enough reason to take risks.

It takes us another 20 minutes of climbing, scrambling, and fumbling around the cliff face to reach our destination. A stone perch that juts out over the vast Pacific Ocean.

Sitting there, our legs dangling over the edge, surrounded by nothing but open skies and open seas, the world seems to pause.

Mike shifts to rock his body against my own in an affectionate side bump—our own expression of endearment.

“It’s beautiful. Thanks, Lottie, this is exactly what I needed.”

No further explanation is offered, nor is it needed. It’s the third anniversary of his father's death, a day he always seeks space and solace from nature. Instead, I answer with a smile and return the side bump, before turning back to study the ocean.

A small, white break in the surface of the water below catches my eye, followed by a gentle ripple. I eagerly point it out to Mike.

“There!”

I’m met with a puzzled look, but he dutifully turns his head to the ocean below, his eyes squinting as they follow the line of my finger.

It doesn’t take long for another series of breaches to break out, disturbing the surface tension with white, foaming streaks that ripple outwards.

Then, it happens — the whales appear.

Giant, majestic humpbacks thrust themselves upwards before slamming back down against the surface. Others lift their tails or roll their bodies to slap their fins as they navigate the coastline during their great migration.

We watch them for as long as possible until they begin to settle and submerge themselves once again. Slowly disappearing back into the great depths below, trailing away from our tiny vantage point at the edge of the world.

As the last whale disappears with a final, rolling breach and a wave of its tail, Mike retrieves an old pocket watch from his coat, gently tugging against a mechanism at the top that freezes the hands in place.

At that moment, it feels as though time stands still.

It was the first time I saw the watch made by Mike’s great-grandfather, Seamus Finnegan. The first time I heard its story.

The story, as it was told to me, went like this.

Seamus Finnegan was born a farmer's son with dreams of something more. As soon as he was able, he took himself off to the city to become a horologist's apprentice.

He was dedicated to his craft and over the years managed to establish himself as one of the best. His timepieces adorned great halls and nestled in the pockets of the elite, and yet his own pocket watch was nothing so refined.

A plain silver case offered protection for the delicate mechanism held within. The only markings on the case were the nicks, scratches and signs of wear that acted as a testament to its function — no elegant engravings or design other than the etchings of life.

A classic face with thin black hands, dutifully marking the minutes and hours as they passed by, observed or unobserved. A smaller circle embedded on the watch face had a separate hand that counted the seconds, a mechanical marvel for the time of its creation.

It was the first watch Seamus had made that successfully counted the seconds, along with the minutes and hours, as they passed by.

A small dial atop the timepiece allowed its owner to manually manipulate the hands. A gentle tug and they would freeze in time, push it back in place and they would resume.

Throughout his life, Seamus took to freezing the hands on his watch whenever he wished to pause time, to savour a particularly touching, heartwarming or happy moment.

A habit he passed to his firstborn child, who passed it to their firstborn child, who passed it to their only child — Mike.

After that day with the whales, I witnessed many more of those moments Mike had wanted to freeze in time.

When he finally finished restoring an old motorbike that was destined for the scrapyard before finding its way to his dedicated and determined hands. Click.

The first time we finished the City-to-Surf run together. Click.

When his own children, the twins, were born. Click.

Countless birthdays, celebratory dinners, and holidays. Click. Click. Click.

For over twenty years of friendship, endless memories were cemented as worthy of freezing time for, if only temporarily.

And then there was the last time.

In his last days, Mike was rarely able to get out of bed, waiting for the inevitable as the hospice nurse made him as comfortable as possible.

My fiance Stevie, and I tried our best to look after the twins, while also making sure he was surrounded by love and memories. When he was no longer able to go outside, we would set up videos on our phones and have the kids document trips to the park, the zoo, or the beach. Wherever the adventure was, the kids would happily run around pointing out things they wanted to show their dad.

It was after one such day the watch froze for the last time. Sitting up late in the evening with Mike, playing him a video of Lia waving the phone about, babbling about a seashell she was failing to catch on camera.

Click.

The old, trusty pocket watch was once again frozen in time.

This time, though, it was closed and pressed into the palm of my hand. Mike gently folding my fingers to close around it before cupping my hand with his own.

“You know, Lottie. There’s two parts to this. It’s important to stop in the good moments, the ones you want to cherish, but you always always must inevitably start time again. There comes a time to resume and move forward through life, otherwise, when you go to pause at the next good moment, you’ll find it still stuck in the past.”

Mike passed away two days later. The watch still frozen in that moment.

Seven months later, Stevie, the twins, and I are standing on a clifftop, overlooking the ocean. The next day, Stevie and I will say our wedding vows in this exact location.

As we wait on some friends to go over a few last-minute details, we sit together on a bench as I tell the twins the story of their great-great-grandfather, Seamus Finnegan, and his pocket watch.

I tell them of watching whales with their father, and other times he used the power to freeze time.

I also explain the other side of the watch's power, the importance of knowing when to let time move forward again, so you can savour all the great moments that are yet to come.

Together, we huddle around the watch and gently push the knob back in place.

Tick.

And once again, time moves forward, ready for new beginnings.

This month, Parasol Publications is celebrating one year on Medium. I would like to personally thank Debra Harman and the wonderful team of editors, who have always been incredibly kind and supportive. Their keen eyes, dedication, and expertise help me become a better writer with every submission.

In celebration, I would like to share one of the first posts that introduced me to The Narrative Arc, their flagship publication. “I am Bruce Lee” by Andrew Tsao is a story I highly recommend reading, and has stuck with me.