The true story behind the 2017 “Deathbox” Grenache — and a masterclass in what NOT to do when making wine (if you want to live... the wine itself is great!)
Winemaking in Queensland: A DIY Winery Meets a Cyclone
If you’ve ever wondered what goes on behind the scenes in small-batch winemaking in Queensland, let me take you back to 2017 — the year I very nearly died making Grenache.
And yes, the wine turned out bloody delicious.
The Shipping-Container Winery
To make wine that year, I bought a broken 40-foot refrigerated container — basically a giant insulated steel box into which I installed the biggest single-phase air conditioner I could find. It worked a treat - 14 degrees inside, 38 degrees outside.
I set it up on my parents’ little farm west of Ipswich. Limited infrastructure, improvised equipment, and several deeply skeptical cows… but enough determination to make it work.
Above is a snap of Kris with the Deathbox (the refrigerated container, and the wine!). It must be post the incident, as we're evidently up to putting the wine in barrels).
Harvesting McLaren Vale Grenache
March 2017's Grenache run began with a logistical marathon:
- Flew to Adelaide.
- Picked up bins from Chep.
- Caught some zeds in a caravan park, before getting up early to arrive before sunrise at a Tatachilla Grenache vineyard, to supervise picking.
- The pickers worked quick and, before long, we had loaded 14 bins of fruit, each only half full to avoid crushing. When transporting grapes long distances, you need to be careful not to put too much fruit in the bins as the weight of the fruit can crush the fruit on the bottom, creating juicing which, before long, means that fermentation starts.
- I raced back to Adelaide with my loaded truck and went straight to a refrigerated freight depot where they popped the bins in the freezer for a couple of days, until the next refrigerated truck to the Gold Coast.
- I then returned the truck to the hire company, caught an Uber to the airport and just made my flight back to Brisbane.
- A few days later, the fruit arrived at the Gold Coast depot, so I hired another truck and went to collect it and bring it back to the farm. With no forklift at the farm, I improvised with a tractor, pallet forks, and sheer optimism until the fruit was safely inside my beautiful, jerry-rigged cold container.
Crushing Chaos and a Fortunate Whole-Bunch Accident
My hobby-sized destemmer took almost two days to crush all 14 bins. On the very last pot, the motor died — leaving one 600kg fermenter entirely whole bunch. No destemmed fruit.
At the time, I was furious. Later, I realised it was a gift — it ended up contributing incredible character to the wine.
Fermentation 101: Why CO₂ Is No Joke
Here’s where some wine-making knowledge becomes handy.
During fermentation, yeast converts sugar to:
- The alcohol we all love
- Heat
- Carbon dioxide (CO₂) — a lot of it
Being heavier than air, carbon dioxide is deadly because it displaces all the air, including in your lungs, if you aren’t careful. The result is a bit of dizziness followed by unconsciousness and rapid death. In an open winery, it drifts away and is safely diluted into nice breathable air. In a sealed container, it pools at floor level and pushes oxygen out.
Part of fermentation when you have skins in the ferment is that all the gas gets trapped in the skins and they want to float to the top - this is known as “the cap” - and “cap management” is an important stylistic decision a winemaker has to make. It’s required to prevent the skins on top from drying out and going gross, but the force with which you wet the skins (and the method) impacts on the wine style.
I was aiming for a soft, lighter-bodied Grenache, so all I did was use my hands to gently submerge the caps. And this is a job that has to be done at least once a day, preferably twice, maybe thrice if you want more extraction. Every day. First thing in the morning and last thing at night, maybe slip another round in during the day if required.
Rather than hold the door open, I’d grabbed some heavy gauge fencing wire and hooked the door back onto a fence post to allow the wave of CO₂ to drain out.
It usually took 4-5 minutes but my (terrible) safety test was simple: if my eyes burned, it wasn’t safe yet.
Please don’t adopt this method. Ever.
The system was working, though. The wines were tasting delicious, and the ferments were just starting to get cranking.
Cyclone Debbie Arrives
Then, the BOM warnings started. Cyclone incoming. Cyclone Debbie. I know some lovely Debbies, but not this one!
One night with rain flying horizontally and my brand-new phone safely left in the dry of the house, I slogged down to plunge the ferments. I hooked the container door open with my trusty wire and waited for the CO₂ to drain.
Once it felt safe, I stepped inside.
A huge gust of wind hit.
The wire snapped.
The door slammed shut — properly locked shut — and the handle was now outside.
Instantly, I knew I was in serious trouble:
- No phone.
- Rising CO₂.
- A 600kg fermenter blocking the door.
- My parents asleep.
No one knew I was inside.
Panic, Realisation, and the Start of CO₂ Poisoning
I tried charging the door — injured both shoulders.
I tried breathing near the air conditioner — more eye burn.
I screamed myself hoarse.
And then the tingling began in my face, hands and neck — the early signs of CO₂ poisoning.
I sat on a barrel, crying and thinking of my sister, who had died nine years earlier and my father, who had never recovered. And then my thoughts went to my own family — my darling, love-of-my-life-wife, and my three beautiful boys. I briefly sat down on a barrel, crying like never before (or since.)
Then another thought broke through: “At least go down swinging.”
A Ridiculous, Nearly Impossible Escape
I climbed into the whole-bunch ferment — dense enough to stand on — and used the rim for leverage. I started donkey-kicking the door.
Nothing.
But I noticed the steel bar handles on the outside were swinging back a second after each kick.
I started timing my kicks with their movement, pushing them further each time.
My vision narrowed. I grew dizzy. The world began greying out.
Then the rage surged — pure survival.
I kicked with everything I had left.
The door budged.
Then again.
And finally — it blew open.
I fell into the mud, rolled away, and lay in the pouring rain laughing and crying like a man possessed.
After recovering, I wedged the door open (with the four-wheeler, this time) went back inside the container, calmly plunged the ferments, and returned to the house.
And then had, without question, the best shower of my life.
Aftermath, Honesty and the Birth of the “Deathbox Grenache”
I didn’t tell my parents.
I didn’t call Kris immediately.
I just sat in the shame of nearly dying through stupidity.
Kris came up to the farm that day, I think, and I told her what had happened. I was still traumatised by the experience (still am, I’d say, given the emotions I’m feeling now, retelling the story.)
Kris, ever the pragmatist, said “you f$#king idiot.”
Fair call.
From that moment, the container winery became The Deathbox (of course).
And the wine it produced became 2017 Deathbox Grenache. A beautiful, full-bodied thing with a life of its own and which isn't just one of my favourites, the people I have worked with - then and since - and Kris all relish cracking open a bottle of the wine that almost killed me. In hindsight, I'm not sure what to make of that, exactly!
When we later relocated the container to Brisbane, Kris made Grenache from the same vineyard in 2020 and 2021 — this time with proper safety measures.
Even writing this now brings back the tight chest and full-body memory of it. But I think tonight I’ll open a bottle of that 2017 Deathbox Grenache. Seems only fitting.
