Travel Reference
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place we would climb inside the enormous vat and dig the grapes out of the vat directly
into it. Sean and I tried to push it into position while John held the pipe and the electrical
wire.
'Push,' yelled Sean.
'It's too heavy,' I said.
'Just do it,' he growled. I nearly whacked him over the head with the wine paddle.
He pushed me out of the way and gave it a massive shove, wedging it into position.
John looked surprised at Sean's behaviour. He and Peta-Lynne knew something was wrong
between us but they put it down to harvest stress and finger trauma. I was having serious
finger trauma myself keeping my middle finger from jamming itself in front of Sean's nose.
Instead I stood back and counted to ten to calm myself. We needed to work as a cohesive
team for a hazardous operation like this. Next, we connected this dangerous beast to the
harvest pipe that had thumped John and me a couple of weeks before. I felt skittish.
With the must pump in position we could dig the must from the vat into it then pump the
must up to the press. Sean opened the door of the vat and a small avalanche of fermented
grapes fell neatly into the pump. It was perfectly positioned. He dragged a little more of the
must using our food-grade winery fork - enough to fill the belly of the must pump - then
switched it on and pumped the mass up to the press. Each small success with equipment
we had never used was a milestone. We took a moment to congratulate ourselves then took
turns digging grapes out of the front door of the vat. The recent death of our neighbours
was a constant reminder of how potentially deadly our new occupation was.
Too soon it was time for someone to get inside the vat. That someone was me since Sean
was still effectively one-handed. I was scared stiff.
'How am I going to get in?' I asked nervously.
'Climb over it,' commanded Sean. The vicious must pump was too heavy to move out of
the way each time we got in and out.
My hand, stained red with wine, was shaking as I leaned over to test the vat's air with
our BiC lighter. The flame remained strong which meant that the air was probably clear
enough of carbon dioxide to be safe to enter. With Sean ready to pull me out if necessary,
I clambered in. Rather than killing me, it smelt like a giant Christmas pudding. I wondered
for a second if that was the smell you got just before you died - I love Christmas pud-
ding. There was no time for philosophising. I pushed my white sterilised boots deep into
the 50-centimetre-thick layer of grape must so there was no chance of slipping out into the
deadly pumpanddugthenpushedthemarc (orpressedmust)toSeanatthevatdoor.About
tenminuteslaterSeandemandedaturn.Hehaddecidedthathecoulddigdespitehisinjury,
if he covered his bandaged hand with a plastic bag to protect it from splashes.
I demanded that he unplug the must pump, horrified and scared as I was of its potential to
eat body parts. He scoffed at the notion saying it was turned off at its switch. Still inside the
tank and not moving until he acquiesced, I explained, as calmly as I could, that someone
