Volume 03
Volume 03
January. photo joneberlinfoto
Fathers.
I really miss him. For some reason, always in January, I think of him most. New years, new chapters, old chapters closing.
Clarence Arthur Berlin was born in Benoni, then Transvaal, South Africa, the son of Edward Berlin, a cabinet maker who worked for the South African Railways, and Joyce Berlin, his mother, on the second last day of the swinging twenties. Born into the darkness and turmoil of the thirties in South Africa and the Second Great War.
Joyce was an Afrikaner, and Edward was English-speaking.
Dad never spoke of his father, there was history there. History, he did not want to share. Joyce was intimidating, hard, reserved, a true Afrikaner if there ever was one. She scared the shit out of me.
Dad graduated from high school at 16, Cum Laude, sharp as a tack. He wanted to be a pilot. There were many returning from the war. Gifted at cricket and football (soccer). He was picked for South Africa to play football on a tour of England that included playing against Wolverhampton Wanderers. He declined, too busy completing his accounting articles. His best friend, John White, was selected as a whip-fast left winger. John left an impression on those who saw him play, fancy feet, light, like a dancer, and whip-quick. He was the kindest man I ever met. I was 7 when he had an epileptic fit after dinner. He suffered from epilepsy throughout his life and succumbed when I was ten. It was the first time I saw Dad cry.
I, of course, had to give Dad heart palpitations as my favoured position was goalkeeper. Makes sense all these years on. Keepers are eccentric, loners by nature, beating to their own drum. Not overly concerned about what others think. I still see him. Pacing the touch line, shouting encouragement. I didn't need it, I was obsessed! Focused solely on keeping that ball out of my net, whatever it took, I would do it. Whatever it took.
From him, I inherited the stick-and-ball gene. Cricket came naturally. A fast bowler who also opened the batting. Playing in a hyper-talented team with players who went on to represent South Africa, I became disillusioned quickly. Did not have the staying power, walked away when I was 14.
Back then, in the height of Apartheid, when you turned thirteen, football gave way to rugby. Government decree.
Football was the “black” sport. Even though I was offered a contract to play for a pro club‘s youth team, my school wouldn't allow it. Dad, softly, kindly, pressed the point home. Education is everything.
The remaining four years of high school, I took my frustration out on the rugby field. Dad paced the sidelines.
Five days a week, after an hour of class, we, four hundred boys, would gather in church for an hour. One sermon, two prayers, two hymns. Surrounded by stained glass and stone, wooden pews, four hundred boys singing will stir your soul. Deeply. Five days a week.
Ethics and spirit. Five days a week will leave an impression.
Then, one day, we were visited by a corporal from the army.
Apartheid South Africa. National service.
You could defer national service by attending university. At that point in life, it sounded better than more education! The South African Navy awaited. Dad was nervous. Hoping I would not annoy too many people in a position of power. Sorry, can't promise that, Dad.
Before the corporal showed up at our church service, I was a Junior, it was rugby season on the highveld, some five thousand and seventy odd feet above sea level. The middle of winter, bone dry, fields harder than concrete, dead brown, bone cold. Dry and cold. Rain comes in summer, usually with hailstones the size of golf balls.
A thousand spectators! Chanting school war cries (Google it).
We were playing Jeppe High School at home. Dad grew up a stone's throw from Jeppe, but Jeppe was private, Dad went to Benoni High, public. We somehow beat them, harder than nails. It was brutal. Full on bingo, no quarter given. Four concussions, a broken collar bone, and a scrum half I tackled who felt the full force of my football wilderness isolation. He didn't get up, stretched off. 16 and 17-year-old boys!
In the stands after, spent, hollow, questioning so much about this place I called home. Guilty about flattening the scrum half.
I saw her.
First stand row, with three friends. Meghan, Fiona, and Kit. Her blond bob touched her left shoulder as she smirked in my direction, laughing. Bright, fully present, emanating light.
Drop me dead! Gorgeous!
Catherine, Kitty, Kit. Absolutely, forever stole my heart. She stole Dad’s as well. He loved her like a daughter. Those two, thick as thieves. He would make her squeal with delight, and she would make him cackle with so much affection. All was right in my small corner of Africa. I loved them both, hard. She was, is, an artist. Her large oil paintings filled our various homes. A converted chicken coop outside Grahamstown on a 300-acre farm. In the Bo Kaap, slave quarters in Cape Town. The restored cottage in Franschehoek. The water tower in Kommetjie.
Them two. photo joneberlinfoto.com
She and I would roam the Southern African coastline searching for waves. Good, lined up crisp, breathed on, offshore swell. Deriving deep out of the Southern Atlantic Ocean. Barometric charts were the guide in the local paper (newspaper, a daily publication where independent news would be reported on). Deep lows off the Sandwich Islands, east of Patagonia, and north of the Antarctic, gave us clues to follow. Southerly gales turning southwest, deep horizon clouds turning blue-black. These swells would rear large, extra-large off Cape Point, and a decision would have to be made. Chase the lined-up swell off the eastern cape coast. Mossel Bay, Victoria Bay, Cape St Francis, Jeffreys Bay, and the points north in the Transkei and the southern Kwa Zulu/Natal coast. Mostly rights, one thousand miles of mostly empty, very sharky, clean, lined-up point break walls.
Or, the heaving A-frame cold water peaks of the west coast. Breaking on mussel-covered reef, in dark kelp beds. Colder than cold. Full 5 mil neoprene, sleeping in sleeping bags, in board bags, in the back of our small, red, Ford mini truck. So grateful for Makeba, our German Shepherd, who was our portable heating blanket sandwiched on top of us. Always in the middle. The slightest huff followed by a puff. That dog!!!!
When the swells were large and unruly, I had them mostly to myself, long open ocean paddles. Steep drops, heart in mouth, wide open walls, and deep, dark barrels. When things went according to plan. When they did not, long, lung-sucking hold downs awaited. Broken boards, leashes, and very long, lonely swims to the beach. Thinking about the Men in the Grey Suits.
When the energy dissipated and moved north or east, Kit would wax up.
She rode a deep V, John Whitmore single, 8’10”, that somehow she had taken ownership of even though it was mine. Shaped in ‘68. She would wax up from the V-shaped tail all the way to the nose and always paddle out with dry hair. Somehow she found the only O’Neill wettie in South Africa (O’Neill boycotted Apartheid South Africa). All black with yellow accents at the neck and shoulders.
Three arm paddles and straight down the line, Speed multiplied. Creeping up to the nose, her languid left leg would point stretched out to the nose, her right knee would drop low, with both arms pointing forward, willing speed. Her hip would snake and twist, dancing. Full, boogie jazz. Holding a high line, slotted in the curl.
Full on, dancing hand jive, karate chop, soulful rhythm and blues, body speak. The nose, kicking off wild spray into her blond locks. A full, deep smile, she would hold trim and race the curl. Always cackling and whooping.
Glorious…..
My favorite surfers have always been women.
A strong life lesson.
Dad was the first introduction to the wine world. Visiting the grand old estates of the Cape when we were young, while holidaying in the Cape. Klein and Groot Constantia, Fairview, Buitenverwhacting and Vergelegen. Kit attended the University in Stellenbosch and continued my wine education when I had days off in the navy.
Dad passed away in the early morning of July 26th, 2004. Kit and I were living in the pool house. Me, trying to kickstart a surfboard shaping career, and Kit, painting large, beautiful canvases.
Mom called out at 2:20 am. We weren't asleep, awake, waiting, somehow knowing this would be the end. I picked his lifeless body up.
So heavy. Heavy. All the breath gone. I still sit with it.
I miss you, Dad.
And, thank you.
Volume 02
Volume 02
Craig Haarmeyer, essential research. photo saraheowen
Two Blondes Walk Into a Bar
It was one of those days in the land of the two suns. Bright, just blindingly bright. f 32 type light at 1/1000th of a second on the slowest film you can find. We started early, as you do because you know what is coming. We were visiting a winemaker and his wines. The things one does when you are trying to understand sites, soil, and intention. Essential research, one might call it. You could also argue it’s a study of person as much as of place. Without a person and intention, grapes would raisin and eventually fall to the earth in the coldest days of winter. No wine would be made, no people brought together, no stories written.
People are everything.
So, sunnies packed, SPF somethingorother applied, ill-fitting ball cap on top, ready for the land of two suns. Driving down Harbor Boulevard with not a boat, jetty, or water in sight. There on the left, not signposted, opposite a storage yard. We knock and are welcomed inside. Thief, glasses, bungs pulled. Pull, pour, swirl, and sniff. Swallow and sometimes spit. A sleeping bottling line, pallets stocked with freshly labelled wine, a pump. It is what we do. One barrel after another, puncheons and Foudres too. Hoses, pipes, lines, depending on where you were raised. A cross-pollination of California Chenin. With Riesling and Nebbiolo. Personal life details hinted at on either side, a life lived and still living. Offspring, the best kind, joins and gives just the right amount of sass lip.
Kids, you have to love them and how they show you all of your failings.
Glasses drained, minds full, hearts even fuller. Back on the tarmac, the melting, greasy tarmac of Sacramento. Easily 100°F at noon. Lunch downtown, back on the road, turning towards the Delta in hopes the water eases the heat. Down, through Clarksburg, past the Old Sugar Mill, running next to the Sacramento River. Past a barge, mid-afternoon fisherman, it's so beautiful out here. Through the town of Hood, established by the Southern Pacific Railroad to transport grain. Keeping on down the Sacramento River, toward Locke.
Two blondes walk into a bar. Al the Wops or Al’s Place, if you prefer. Well, by blondes, I mean one in particular. Tall, regal, strawberry blonde for sure. The other was blonde once. Now, less so, more Silver Fox-like, you know the type. The younger, strawberry blonde, disarms at first sight; you cannot help but warm to her. The Silver Fox, well. One gets the impression he may be in the CIA, MI5 or both. Dodgy bugger for sure, intense but charming, a bit of a worry.
The two, Strawberry and Silver, roll into Al's Place. One would think they are here to beat the heat, down a chubby water or three, and get back on the road. Only partially true. They are here for the pickled vegetable bar snacks. True story. Things are like this in the Delta. A real, stuffed Ostrich stands above the ladies’ room. The floorboards creak, and the walls are definitely not straight, not even close.
Al’s the Wops was established in 1934, twenty-two years after the town was built. The only town in the United States built by the Chinese for the Chinese. A little-known fact is that, pre-World War One, most of California's labor was of Chinese descent. Locke township looks today much like it did one hundred years ago.
Strawberry and Silver are content.
Toward the land of two suns. photo saraheowen
Content until, “Welcome, what would you like to drink? You can have anything you want?” Well, that's easy, says Strawberry to Silver. “Two Mezcal Margaritas, please. A little salt on the rim. And the house pickles!”
This really is a well-thought-out request. A mid-morning tasting of transparent, zippy white wine without the mascara of an obvious new French Oak barrel, requires the counterpoint of the wonderfully smoky, stimulant that is Mezcal. Supported by lime juice and a smidge of orange liquor! And pickled vegetable bar snacks.
“Anything but that, we don't have Mezcal”, was the reply from the barkeep.
Apart from the impending confusion and realization that we would have to drink martinis before four in the afternoon, the barkeep's response is certainly an interesting metaphor when you apply it to wine.
I entered this industry as a listless, impressionable late twenties male, trying desperately to find his way. And, as is often the case, I was hugely influenced by the first people I worked with. Bar none, all were obsessed with making “world-class” wine. South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, and California, it did not matter. All my mentors were comparing their wines to the greats. It was with this raison d'etre that I forged my career over the next twenty years. However, the longer I was “in it,” the more I began to understand and see the disconnect between winemaker and consumer.
Almost everyone who loves wine and has been to Europe says the same thing.
“We were in this restaurant in Paris, Barcelona, or Milan, the “house” wine was served in a carafe, and it was incredible! Couldn't have been more than $8 a carafe! The best wine we have ever tasted!”
Ahhh, was it the best wine, surroundings, company, or yes, all of that!
So, yes, you could go to Burgundy, to the most storied domaines that begin with a D and end with a C, and have your pip blown tasting the 2005 vintage out of barrel in the early Spring of 2006 with a 5-month-old in a baby Bjorn (a wonderful mobile heating device). You could also go to Provence, drink humble Côteaux Varois Rose, with Venison loin butchered with pruning shears (true story), thinking you have died and gone to wine heaven.
Yes, if you have the means, you CAN have anything you would like, but just because you CAN, doesn't mean you SHOULD! So, my conclusion after drinking Martini’s at four in the afternoon, with pickled vegetable bar snacks, is that to truly live wine, make it a part of your daily, weekly or monthly life, it’s the carafe, Village, humble, Côteaux Varois, everyday wine, the Tuesday night wine, that elevates one into the culture of a wine life.
Simple can be, oh so good. I venture that if more of us leaned into the everyday simplicity of a thoughtfully made, affordable, and “crushable” wine, our lives would be richer for it. I truly hope you enjoy the wines I am offering and, if you do, spread the word. Everyone needs “crushable” wine.
Everyone!
The entrance to Haarmeyer Cellars. photo saraheowen
Volume 01
Volume 01
Sunrise over Cienega Valley.
A Chenin Blanc Journey from Clarksburg to Cienega Valley
I am sitting at my small dining table in my new kitchen, in my new rental, four short blocks from downtown Napa. Fifteen minutes from where I now make my wine. Twenty-five miles from St Helena and El Molino, where I made wine for the last twenty-odd years. Two brand new wines are open, ready to taste.
Boxes, oh so many boxes, are strewn everywhere. Some full, others emptied of their cargo. A lone, navy blue, Danish mid-century chair, a gift from a special friend, is the only furniture in the living room. The third bedroom is now a closet, difficult to navigate, and my underwear has gone walkabout.
The house seems confused, a pressed-for-time father, trying to get his kid to school on time, knowing he is already late. And, somehow, all feels right with the world. Well, at least in this small corner of Napa.
Amongst all of this, I sit, excited, hopeful, and settling into this thing that I’ve created. Even though it feels simultaneously like jumping off a cliff, it also feels like coming home. That familiarity of recognition of something you know so well but have missed.
Contemplating these two new wines, writing the tasting notes, I am also trying to make sense of the last eighteen months in an attempt to articulate this new thing I’ve manifested, out of the ether (you see what I did there?). Something very different from the last twenty-odd years at El Molino.
Those wines were intentionally made to evolve and age over time as expressions of place. The wines of Chasing Ether also are expressions of place, California in this case, but are intended to be more accessible, approachable, and dare I say “crushable”! If you are in the dark about the meaning of “crushable,” the Oracle describes it thus;
"Crushable" wines refer to those that are light-bodied, smooth-textured, easy to drink, and enjoyable without requiring deep contemplation. These wines are typically characterized by their refreshing qualities and lower alcohol content, often made from natural or organic grapes, making them perfect for casual settings and social gatherings.
But, what about the how, where, and why you may ask… the Chasing Ether origin story? Well, OK, here goes.
This all started with an email, the type I usually get in late winter and early spring, about grapes being available for the upcoming harvest. Normally, a quick tap of the delete button takes care of that (I do try to keep my inbox tidy and concise). “Normally,” for me, however, had ceased to exist over the past three years. Starting a new chapter and finishing the previous proved to be difficult, complicated, and fraught with way more emotional energy than I had. I was totally drained. At times, I seriously contemplated an entirely new career in another industry altogether, to do something completely new with my hard-earned autonomy. I’d had umpteen pursuits around the world before winemaking; what was one more?
My 30-year love affair with wine wasn’t easily shaken, however, and there was that pesky email in my inbox about a couple of tons of Coastal Pinot.
Was I interested? I really was not sure if I was. Yet, I replied to the email suggesting we meet for a chat. A drive out to Occidental appealed as a tonic to my malaise.
Around the same time, my friend Melinda Kearney, of Lorenza Wines, and I sat together at Tegan Pessalacqua’s fall wine dinner at Guantonio's in Lodi. It had been a breathtaking drive out to the Delta; the first storms of the season were brooding and creating the most amazing skyscape of purples, blacks, contrasted by shadow and hues.
As the evening wore on while working through Tegan’s lineup, I waxed on, as I am want to do, about how great and under appreciated Chenin Blanc is.
Mindy, maybe growing tired of my waxing, suddenly deadpanned, “You should make some then!”
Sometimes the answers to the questions you have not yet asked, are right in front of you!
“Speak to Craig Haarmeyer”, Mindy said, “he will help you find Chenin”.
So I gave Craig a call, and we had a great chat, and he put me in touch with three Chenin growers.
So, in the midst of extricating myself from one of the oldest wineries in the Napa Valley, I had laid claim to two Chenin vineyards. One grown on limestone and the other on silt. And, a third vineyard of Occidental coastal Pinot.
So there you have it, the roundabout, but also completely straightforward way that this endeavor, Chasing Ether, came to be.
WELCOME!
Now, on to the wines, of which there are three.
Early morning in Occidental.
V1 1/2
I initially worked with this vineyard from 2009 to 2017, when Ulysses Valdez was farming Morelli Creek in Occidental. We would meet in March at Mike's Truck Garden, a fruit stand on River Road. After having a nice chat, we would shake on a couple of tons of super high-end Pinot fruit. I wouldn't hear from him until he’d call to inform me that the fruit was “bueno” and ready to go. Two tons of wonderful Pinot Noir would show up the next day, around 8 am, and I would take care of the rest. Ulysses tragically passed away during the harvest in 2018. I still miss him and his great big smile. When he exited stage left, that wonderful Pinot fruit left with him.
Fast forward to April 26th, 2024, when I received an email from Nathan Feileacan, wondering if I would be interested in some Pinot. Nathan had recently joined the vineyard and was looking for buyers. I hadn't given much thought to making “my own” wine or creating anything new at this point, but “oooffff”, Morelli Creek Pinot? Wouldn't that be fun!
Very fun, it turns out. It's so much fun that, that email kick-started Chasing Ether!
Morelli Creek is situated off Morelli Lane in Occidental, which has become a hub for Pinot growing in California. The Pinot is perched at the top of a canyon just above the fog line, a wonderful site that will produce beautifully ripe fruit while maintaining lovely acidity. The Goldridge soils, which are a fine, sandy loam, are low in fertility and offer excellent drainage. Formed by an ancient seabed and sandstone formations, wine from these soils tends to be light-weight but serious at the same time. It's “cool” out on the Sonoma Coast, but not particularly “cool” in 2024. Turns out Karl the Fog took a vacation. I would arrive at the vineyard expecting a twenty-degree difference from Calistoga, and most days it was the same temperature, give or take a degree or three!
On Old Sonoma Road, heading to the coast.
V1 2/2
This version of the Chasing Ether White Wine is composed of two vineyards: Wilson Farms in Clarksburg and Gimelli in the Cienega Valley. Wilson Farms is thoughtfully farmed by David Ogilvie. A dapper, handsome, soft-spoken, and well-travelled man if there ever was one. I was introduced to David by Craig Haarmeyer over text, two days before harvesting this block of Chenin. We met at the vineyard, perched between Elk Slough and the Sacramento River on either side, and started chatting as we walked the rows. A harvest in South Africa put a check in the plus column as I plucked random berries to taste, chew, and spit. Holy Moly! The fruit was delicious! I said as much, and David agreed.
“I’d pick this today”, I said.
“Can't do today, but how about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow's great, can I borrow some bins?”
“Sure, if you return them.”
“Great, I'll see you in the am.”
“Bring a check.”
“Will do”
And that is how you get into the wine business. Again, twenty-five years after first doing it in a restaurant over a bottle of Pinot in Franschehoek, South Africa.
David's other gig is Silt Wine Company, which I highly recommend; they offer bright, delicious wines at great prices. Oh, and before I forget, David also plays a mean bass guitar; you can catch him at Silt and other venues throughout the Delta.
Clarksburg is a little river town, deep in the Sacramento Delta, and worth a visit. The Delta is cooled by breezes off San Francisco Bay and can have as much as a forty-degree Fahrenheit swing in day and nighttime temperatures. This part of the Delta is slowly gaining recognition for the quality of Chenin Blanc that is well-suited to the microclimate and the alluvial silty loam soil found in the area. The Wilson component of the blend is more fruit-forward and riper than the Gimelli. The palate is tight and fresh with good viscosity and cut. I referred to this as the fruit salad component of this blend while tasting it in barrels. It is also CCOF Organic certified, which goes to show the commitment of growers like David.
On the other hand, Gimelli is farmed by Bill Weatherwax. A true Californian character if there ever was one! Bill has been in and around the California wine scene for almost forty years, as a vineyard excavator and farmer. Lily, his terrier, is a constant companion on tractors, trucks, and forklifts.
Gimelli is in a natural Caldera amphitheater, just outside the town of Hollister and near Gilroy. Gilroy, if you are unaware, is the self-proclaimed garlic capital of the world. Thankfully for the wine and your partner, no garlic flavors are present in this juice! The soil is limestone-based, made famous by Calera Wine Company founder Josh Jenson, and provides ample structure and definition that is unique to this part of California. When driving through the valley, I feel that I am in a Steinbeck novel. This part of California remains isolated and relatively untouched, and I get the feeling of time travel back 90 years when George and Lennie, of Mice and Men, roamed Salinas and this part of the world, itinerant and on the move, much like many farm laborers still do today.
Late to ripen in October, this Chenin is taught, very structured with firm, long tannins that have an indelible presence on the palate. More pear and citrus flavors are present, and this wine gained complexity with time in barrel.
Looking for Steinbeck.
VOL 2 1/1
Clementine, my daughter, and I were sitting in the back of Eben’s bakkie (South African for truck, just a little smaller and more stout than the US counterpart) on Eben's farm, deep in the Swartland and as Eben wanted to do, he was waxing lyrical. Oh, so lyrical! I smelled the fynbos, the red clay of Africa, mildly paying attention. And then, without hesitation, he dropped this gem!
“You know, Cinsault is like that cousin that everyone loves but nobody talks about because he is in prison”.
Right there, Eben Sadie said more about Cinsault than has ever been spoken. This wine grape that looks and behaves like a table grape. Doesn't really want to get ripe, like it couldn't be asked to! The wine that is made can be Pinot-like, maybe on a bad hair day, but also Carignan-like, getting a little wild and a touch messy. It can be the secret something, something, in a Rose’ blend. The great Cape reds of the 1950s always had some in the blend. This Cinsault grape is a thing. Just like your cousin in prison.
Cinsault became something that I started to enjoy a few years back, 2016 or thereabouts, I think. I had been buying Tegan’s Chenin from his Sandlands project since its inception. He asked why I didn't buy any of his reds?
“I’m not really into these light reds that the kids are digging nowadays”, was my reply.
His eyes rolled!
“Fine, throw in a Cinsault, Trousseau and that Mission. I’ll give them a try.”
Ten years later, and those “light reds” are really the only reds I now drink!
So, a couple of months ago, I was paying attention to the bulk wine market, as you do when the wine biz is in the ‘sh@%$ter. Dry Creek Cinsault 2023 for sale. And I thought of Eben, the bakkie, Clementine, Tegan’s light reds, the African summer of 2023.
Hmmmmm. May as well take a look……
It turns out that if you blend your favorite cousin, who may have a record with your elegant, sophisticated cousin (in this case, represented by Occidental Pinot) to the tune of twenty or so percent, you may enjoy an early release for good behavior with a dapper sense of dress!
I truly hope you enjoy these wines and please, if you do, spread the word. Everyone needs “crushable” wine.
Everyone!
FRIENDS MENTIONED HERE