![]() The means of death could be horrific – and sometimes they are – although most are related to carbon dioxide exposure. ![]() Most of it isn't dangerous although, as a friend once pointed out, one could write an incredible series of horror stories set in wineries. They don't get their own label, they don't get their own tank named after them, they aren't courted by the media, they aren't asked to look after next year's capex or barrel order but without the work that they do, a winery could not function. There are thousands of people like Stephanie. ![]() Once free, she collapsed in a heap and, composure more-or-less regained, went outside for a shaky cigarette. Because in between her terrified sobs and hysterical screams, muffled to those above by the noise of presses pulling vacuums, and of destemmers chugging away, I was the one telling her, with all the calm I could, that in order to get out of the door, she had to twist herself onto her side and, one palm on the floor, another on the racking valve, shimmy out. I have no idea how she fared inside the tank – I was probably off seeing to a pump or checking a ferment – but I know very well how she was when she tried to get out of it. But even most "civilians" I have worked with in wineries would not outright say "no" to a job. She was not in the industry – just a hired hand to help as things got busy – which makes a difference. Stephanie (whose name I have changed) was nervous before she went in to hose it out. Sonoma Not All Sunshine for Vineyard Workers All it took was a flickering headtorch and I was left in echoing, dripping, total darkness, bar a rectangle of light at one end that looked too small to fit through. The tank (there were eight in the damp, dripping cellar below the winery) was the size of a small bedroom with a ceiling six feet high, a door the size of an old TV, and a hole in the roof (to receive the juice from above) the diameter of your average showerhead.īy the time I had come to work in the winery, I was what is referred to as "an experienced cellarhand" and, despite being well-accustomed to the procession of confined space entries that is working in a cellar, even I had to fight the nagging claustrophobia in those tanks. Stephanie was in an epoxy-lined, underground tank, made in concrete, about 10 feet under four churning wine presses. ![]() © Epoch Wines | Getting inside the tanks is no mean feat getting out is no picnic either. ![]()
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