Marlins and the wines of our lives.

The old man and his unfair battle against the ocean and the Big Marlin, the magic pages of Hemingway, may seem to have nothing in common with vines and wine, and yet, some approach the matter with the same spirit.
I have seen vineyards in May wave and lap like a stormy sea, then there, patiently, men and women work,  by hand or with scissors, presses, barrels and fermenters; with this line, expectant, never satisfied, maybe contented enough with the wine that has been produced, but always waiting for that exceptional one, where the earth and the sun bring out the extraordinary, that particular one that leaves its mark in the glass, the special one, fit  to hand down to the grandchildren.
Fishermen always solitary, because each and everyone keeps in his soul and in his heart, the one best thing that he could make or make happen, towards the perfect vintage, the eternal bottle, the unforgettable sip.
Then, alas, everyday life is made up of all else, of normalness, of fish, more or less plentiful, of luck or ill fate.
But that's the way it goes, like the old man defeated by the sea, it's the same for some constructors of wines…the quest for the impossible never comes to a head, and then both types of these humans fall into slumber, to dream of lions.