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⚙️ Born of Brass, Vodka, and Determination
There’s something irresistibly purposeful about the Poljot Okeah — a watch designed not for boardrooms, but for battleships.
I’ve never owned one, but I’ve admired plenty from afar.
Each one looks like it could survive a torpedo strike, a vodka spill, and a stern talking-to from a naval commander — all before lunch.
In the 1970s, while the Swiss were perfecting luxury chronographs, the Soviets had something else in mind: a tool watch tough enough for naval duty.
Thus emerged the Poljot Okeah, meaning “Ocean” in Russian — a watch built for the officers of the Soviet Navy’s hydrological service, because even the Cold War needed accurate timing.
Its heart? The Poljot 3133 movement, a sturdy mechanical chronograph with Swiss DNA — literally.
After Valjoux retired its 7734 line, the Soviets did what any sensible empire would: bought the tooling, reverse-engineered it, and built their own.
The result was a movement that ran like a tank engine — not delicate, but determined.
🪖 Design: Built for the Sea (and Possibly a Fight)
The Okeah isn’t elegant; it’s functional beauty in Cyrillic.
That bright blue and white dial, the red chrono hands, and the bold “Океан” script make it stand out like a periscope at a tea party.
It’s unapologetically utilitarian — the kind of design where legibility and practicality came first, and aesthetics just happened to tag along for the ride.
Even the case feels naval — thick, brushed, and a little over-engineered, as if it might double as a hull plate in an emergency.
Put one on your wrist and you don’t so much wear it as deploy it.
🕵️♂️ Issued, Not Sold
Unlike many Soviet watches that were mass-produced for export, the Okeah wasn’t made for tourists or shop shelves.
It was issued to naval personnel, and early examples were engraved with serial numbers and naval insignia on the caseback.
For collectors, that makes the Okeah a genuine piece of service equipment — a watch with real military provenance.
That exclusivity also explains why originals are now rare, and why the market is awash with reissues, rebuilds, and Franken-Okeahs.
Some are honest homages; others… less so.
⚠️ Spotting the Real Deal
Here’s how to separate a true Cold War veteran from a modern imposter:
Movement: Look for the Poljot 3133 with the correct bridge stamp — crisp, engraved, and often decorated with subtle striping.
Dial: Originals have a distinctive blue-and-white layout with red chronograph accents — bold, functional, and unmistakably 1970s Soviet in attitude.
Caseback: Early military versions carry naval motifs — waves, serial numbers, or unit markings.
Aging: If it looks too new to have survived the 1970s, trust your instincts. The Okeah earned its wrinkles.
Hands and Subdials: Genuine vintage Okeahs have bright red chronograph hands and off-white subdials that have often aged to a gentle cream tone. Modern reissues tend to look too crisp or glossy — the real thing should have just a hint of patina.
Crown and Pushers: The original pushers are slightly wider and sit proud of the case, with a firm, mechanical click rather than the soft action of later replacements. The crown itself is unsigned but solid, showing tool marks that tell you it’s been opened by someone who probably owned more vodka than Bergeon screwdrivers.
🔧 Restoration: Rescuing a Soviet Survivor
Whether you’re reviving an original or tinkering with a reissue, the Okeah rewards careful work.
It’s a solid piece of engineering, but like any mechanical chronograph, it’s happiest when treated with respect (and the right tools).
At 🐓 RedRoosterUK, we’ve helped plenty of collectors breathe new life into these Cold War marvels.
If you’re restoring one, you’ll likely want:
🪞 A new crystal: The acrylic is prone to scratches — a Sternkreuz HW series replacement fits many Okeah cases perfectly.
🪛 Case and movement tools: A sturdy case opener, fine screwdriver set, hand levers, and a movement holder will keep things secure while you work.
⚙️ Cleaning essentials: Rodico, dust blowers, and lint-free cloths — because one stray fingerprint can undo an hour of pride.
🩸 Seals and gaskets: Replace them as you go; a chronograph that’s survived the Cold War deserves to stay watertight another few decades.
With the right care, even a battered Okeah can gleam again — not showroom perfect, but authentically proud, like a battleship after repainting.
💷 What’s It Worth? (A Matter of Condition, Comrades)
Prices for the Poljot Okeah have risen steadily as collectors realise just how few genuine examples survived intact.
Original military-issue pieces with correct 3133 movements, authentic casebacks, and honest wear typically fetch £700–£1,200, depending on provenance and service history.
Clean civilian Poljot versions or early reissues (1980s–90s) usually sell for £400–£700 — still great value for a mechanical chronograph with Cold War pedigree.
Modern tributes or rebuilt “Franken” models often list between £250–£400, but treat those more as conversation pieces than investments.
