This April, all across Napa Valley, most farms suffered fatal damage from the harshest frost in a century. The affected farms amounted to roughly 80 percent of the total—nothing short of the worst disaster imaginable. Yet a few farms endured the cold damage without major losses, and most of them were places equipped with far larger facilities than ordinary farms and located on higher ground.
In conclusion, one could say that the lucky and the wealthy were the ones spared. But among them, the vineyard owners focused on one farm in particular.
Redwood Winery.
“If that isn’t a miracle, what do you call it?”
At first, people simply thought of it as a miracle. But anyone who had actually visited Redwood used this expression instead.
“It was an ice kingdom. An ice kingdom wrapped around the grapes.”
The farmers and workers who confirmed its perfectly controlled state of preparedness photographed and shared the vineyards owned by Redwood Winery. And the one that put a period on the fact that cold damage could be overcome in such a manner was UC Davis.
“As previously published in academic papers, the Micro-Sprinkler System can effectively protect against cold damage.”
It was only yesterday that curiosity and suspicion were confirmed to have been based on verified theory. As a result, Napa’s conservative winemakers were thrown into great shock.
Those who had blindly trusted only tradition and experience were now scrambling to order sprinkler systems. But from my position, I could not watch this phenomenon with the leisure of a victor.
“I heard three nearby farms started drilling wells at the same time. Everyone’s desperate to secure water for sprinklers.”
In the car on the way back to Napa, Warren spoke with a rather worried expression. Though Warren had witnessed with his own eyes the ingenious method that had stopped this frost damage, he could not hide his concern in the face of this new difficulty.
Sprinklers were the most powerful weapon against cold damage, but at the same time, they were water-guzzling monsters that had to pour out an enormous amount of water in a short period. Considering Napa Valley’s limited groundwater resources, it was obvious that if dozens of wineries drilled wells and began pumping water at the same time, the water level near the surface would be depleted in an instant.
“So it’s starting. Napa’s water war.”
Holding the steering wheel, I kept my eyes fixed ahead and muttered. I had vaguely known about it while studying wine before my regression. Due to climate change, Napa Valley suffered a major water problem, and as a result, muddy lawsuits broke out among the wineries—or something like that.
It might look abundant right now, but groundwater contains the tragedy of the commons, where whoever takes it first becomes its owner. This was why I had called in the Rainmaker.
When we arrived at Redwood’s outdoor terrace, there were still about twenty minutes left until the appointed time, yet a man was already sitting there, exuding a massive presence. A huge, rotund body that looked as though it might roll if pushed, wrapped in a high-end suit so taut it seemed ready to burst, as if it had been custom-made for him—and yet, the more one looked, the more oddly well it suited him. It was Harold “Harry” Montis, Napa Valley’s top water-law specialist.
“It’s been a while.”
Harry heaved his massive body up and tucked the handkerchief he had been using to wipe away sweat into his pocket. The warm June sunlight must have felt terribly hot to him.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you since the Brentwood cherry farm case earlier this year, so it’s been almost half a year. I’ve heard the story.”
“Sit down first. But you heard the story?”
“This famous old gentleman here told me all about
it.”
When I turned to the side, Warren shrugged.
“I thought I should at least tell him why we were meeting, so I explained a little. It’s easier to understand if he knows the background.”
“Ah…”
After we all took our seats, I asked an employee to bring some cold tea. Once I saw Harry drink his iced tea and cool himself down, I spoke.
“Harry, as you’ve heard, the 200-foot wells we have now won’t be enough. Once our neighbors start pumping water, our wells will dry up quickly. We need to go where they can’t reach—deeper down.”
Harry, who had already heard the circumstances, spoke with a grave expression.
“I’ve heard that because of the frost damage, grape farms in Napa and Sonoma are all rushing to install sprinklers and dig wells. But drilling a well 200 to 300 feet deep and drilling a 1,000-foot well—about 300 meters deep—are entirely different matters.”
“…Please continue.”
He wiped away the sweat flowing again and went on explaining.
“To understand this, you need some background knowledge on how Napa Valley shares its water resources. In Napa Valley, most people have shared water at similar depths, around 200 to 500 feet. Since everyone has straws stuck in at about the same depth, one side using a little more doesn’t immediately dry up the neighbor’s well. It’s the use of a shared resource under a kind of mutual tacit consent.”
“I know that.”
“Good. If, as you want, Brian, we install a powerful pump deep in an aquifer below 1,000 feet and draw up water, a phenomenon called a Cone of Depression will occur, rapidly lowering the water level near the surrounding surface.”
I already knew, but I nodded and listened without interrupting his explanation.
“When that happens, everyone thought they had stuck in their straws together, but the neighbors’ shallow straws are left hanging in the air while only Redwood’s straw monopolizes the water from deep below. Objectively speaking, this can easily appear not as sharing, but as plunder. There will likely be a series of lawsuits for infringement of water rights. On top of that, a 1,000-foot well will also cost a considerable amount.”
“Cost doesn’t matter. No matter how much it takes.”
“No matter how much? The drilling cost alone will be more than five times that of an ordinary well.”
“Yes.”
He wore an expression that said he could not understand. A pear orchard needed so much water that a deep well might be necessary, but common sense said Napa Valley grape farms, which used regulated deficit irrigation, did not require that much water.
“Isn’t this to prevent frost damage? Frost damage isn’t something that can only be prevented through sprinklers, is it? Do you really need to go this far?”
His question was valid. After all, the entire reason Napa Valley was in an uproar over drilling wells right now was to prepare for frost damage.
From that perspective, it was only natural that he could not understand my insistence on drilling all the way down to the aquifer.
“I’m uneasy about the current climate.”
At my words, both of their faces stiffened. It must have been because I had brought up a reason they had never expected.
“You’re uneasy about the climate?”
Warren could not help but ask, and I crossed my arms and answered with a serious expression.
“This year, frost damage came for the first time in a hundred years. Rainfall is becoming unstable every year, unlike before, and the same goes for temperature. If rainfall drops sharply below the average and we get a historic drought, the water in the shallow layers will be depleted in an instant, and all the grapes on the farms will starve to death. If we assume we try to drill wells at that point, then everyone will probably try to dig deep wells. The government won’t grant permits easily.”
In reality, in 2014, a law called the SGMA—the Sustainable Groundwater Management Act—would be enacted. Before that law came into being, if you had money and could withstand the glares of nearby farms, you could drill a well. But after the law was passed, permits would only be granted if you could prove that “this well will not negatively affect the surrounding environment or neighboring wells.”
In effect, after 2014, not even the Rainmaker—nor the Rainmaker’s grandfather—would find it easy to drill a well. And there was one more reason we had to dig a deep well in advance. It was because of the legal standard called historical recorded usage.
Before my regression, I had heard that if there was a record showing that a well had already been drilled before the law took effect and that a certain amount of water had been used continuously, then a far more favorable allocation would be granted ahead of new users.
“For now, I understand the reason.”
The Rainmaker nodded and immediately rose from his seat. Buttoning his jacket, he looked down at me calmly and said,
“I’ll try to handle it quietly and amicably.”
“I’m counting on you.”
“Yes, then…”
Harry went straight down from the winery and squeezed himself into the back seat of the black Cadillac Escalade waiting there. As the car door closed with a heavy thud, he spoke in a cold voice.
“Move.”
As soon as the secretary in the driver’s seat started the car, Harry began tapping incessantly on the screen of his PDA phone. The smartphone revolution had yet to sweep the world, but Harry’s devices were the best available at the time.
Then he made a call.
“Monica, it’s me. Immediately gather data on every farm within two miles of Coombsville and Redwood’s main estate. Especially the fertilizer purchase records and application history from the past twenty years—that’s key. List the ones with a high proportion of nitrogen-based fertilizers. Oh, and you know my contact planted in the county water quality bureau? Call him out and secure every official water quality test result from the past three years that was classified as nonpublic because its contamination levels were borderline. Pay whatever he asks.”
Before even hanging up, Harry pressed another number. His plump fingers moved with surprising precision.
“George, take your team and collect surface water samples near Redwood right now. Finish analyzing nitrogen compound concentrations by tomorrow morning. It needs to be precise enough to use as evidence in court. Understood?”
Harry’s office in downtown Napa looked from the outside like an old-fashioned Victorian building, but the inside was a war room filled with cutting-edge geological analysis equipment and large monitors. As soon as Harry entered the office, the team members waiting inside all stood at once.
“Let’s begin immediately.”
Without even leaning his massive body against the desk, Harry posted a map of Napa’s aquifers on the whiteboard.
“Our objective is to drill a 1,000-foot well at Redwood Winery. Don’t ask why, and don’t try to find out. Focus only on the mission.”
He then looked at each of the team members in turn and continued.
“Geology team, analyze the permeability at the 300-foot level in this area. Find where the impermeable layer that prevents nitrogen contaminants from descending into the deep aquifer breaks off. Whether we find this or not will be the key.”
He turned his head toward the private investigator standing beside him.
“You investigate the financial flows of the major farms within five miles—about eight kilometers—of Redwood’s vineyards. Especially if there are traces of contact with drilling companies, report them down to the second. We need to put legal shackles on them before those bastards drive drills into the ground.”
As the night deepened, the office filled with pizza boxes, coffee cups, and mountains of documents. Harry, with his enormous body, moved among the team members without rest. Even as he shoved sandwiches into his mouth with one hand, his eyes continuously scanned the flood of geological data, while with his other hand he searched through case law in the legal codes.
Three in the morning. Just as everyone was growing exhausted, Harry finally picked up a pen and muttered.
“Whew… This should be enough…”
The documents to establish a private organization with the plausible name of the “Environmental Crisis Management Committee,” along with a draft “Waiver of Rights” relinquishing Redwood’s surface water rights, were completed at his fingertips. Additionally, hidden behind that waiver was a cunning “indemnity clause agreement” that would make nearby farm owners shoulder all responsibility for surface water contamination the moment they signed it.
“Is it all right to do this? Giving up surface water…”
At the worried question from a team member, Harry answered in an utterly calm voice without the slightest movement.
“Nothing in this world can be obtained for free. People, you see, often give up the chance to gain a million dollars because they resent spending ten thousand.”
“But couldn’t the client’s thoughts differ from yours, sir?”
“Then that would simply be the measure of that man’s vessel. But that Asian man won’t reject my proposal. He has a peculiar kind of vision.”
Harry, known as the Rainmaker, narrowed his eyes—already made small by the flesh around them—even further, and formed an inscrutable smile.
207. Securing the Well First (3)
The next day, Harry came to Redwood again. I met him right after I got back from school.
“It’s truly fascinating that the center of the storm shaking Napa Valley is still a UC Davis student. Don’t people at school think so too?”
“Haha, there are some who see it that way. That’s why we get a lot of field trips from the school.”
Ever since we received the eco-friendly certification, it had become something of a set course for staff from the Agricultural Extension Office to bring small farm owners from nearby areas to tour Redwood Farm. The same was true for students, especially since they had even given presentations on our miraculous overcoming of the recent frost damage.
There was a reason why farms throughout Napa Valley, and even Sonoma, were all rushing to dig wells.
“The professors must be terribly curious about the winery’s secrets.”
Sitting beneath the shade canopy and drinking cool iced tea, he looked utterly at ease.
“They’re very curious about the basic theory. Things like the philosophical background behind the creation of Astra Veil.”
“Oh? And?”
“I try to explain it as indirectly as possible. If I keep talking, I’d eventually have to go into everything from the background behind the composition of the blended wines to the ratios…”
“That’s what they’re trying to lead you into.”
“Exactly. So I just write it off as luck.”
At that moment, Warren, who had approached at some point wearing a large straw hat, plopped down beside Harry. After ordering a cold Ford drink from an employee, he said,
“Though no one’s going to believe you when you call it luck.”
When you haven’t shown or proven anything, calling something luck might be taken as a lack of confidence, but even Westerners couldn’t casually belittle someone who had proven himself to this degree.
Harry nodded, then took a document out of a bag that looked large to me but was about the size of his palm to him, and pushed it toward me.
“These are the results from our geology team and water quality analysis team.”
Then Harry pointed with a sausage-like finger at a red figure on the water quality analysis sheet.
“See how the nitrate concentration is right up against the warning threshold? This is clear evidence that fertilizer sprayed over the vineyards has seeped into the surface aquifer. We can argue that the groundwater at the 200-to-300-foot level in southern Napa Valley is effectively a potential contamination zone.”
Warren, who had been watching from the side, frowned and asked,
“Are figures like this really a problem? All the other farms are using this water too.”
“Of course not. Legally speaking, it isn’t at a level that would require immediate shutdown. But when discussing the purity of premium wine, it’s a figure that can certainly be raised as an issue.”
Harry made it seem as though he had simply conducted a water quality analysis to find a suitable excuse for digging a deep well, but in truth, this nitrate issue was both extremely serious and one the wine industry preferred to ignore.
For example, in some regions of Champagne, France, the nitrate concentration in groundwater has far exceeded the EU standard of 50 mg/L, reaching the point where it can no longer be used as drinking water. And in regions like Bordeaux, not only nitrates but also copper accumulation caused by the use of Bordeaux mixture, a copper sulfate-based fungicide, has become a serious problem. Copper accumulated in the soil and nitrates flowing into groundwater are damaging the soil ecosystem and even negatively affecting the microbial balance of wine.
Such problems affect not only humans but wine as well. If wine is made from grapes with excessive nitrogen content, yeast proliferates too much during fermentation, producing unwanted odors, causing the wine’s structure to collapse, and destabilizing its acidity.
In other words, the purity of terroir disappears.
In the United States, people still did not regard the issue as particularly severe, to the point that even Warren took it lightly. That alone showed how people at this time viewed nitrates.
“You found yourself a decent excuse, then.”
In any case, Warren was satisfied with the grounds Harry had found. Harry looked into my eyes and continued explaining.
“To obtain the 1,000-foot drilling permit you want, Master, we need justification. This will be that justification.”
“I understand.”
“Now one obstacle remains. Once we secure approval from the water board and begin drilling down to an aquifer over 1,000 feet deep, the moment word gets out, nearby farm owners will swarm in like bees. In truth, this is where the core of every problem begins: the feeling that their rights are being taken away. They’ll believe Redwood is pumping water from the aquifer and stealing what belongs to them.”
“What’s the solution?”
“How about handing over the surface water rights?”
At those words, Warren was startled.
“Hand over the surface water rights? All of them?”
“Yes, all of them.”
As I listened, deep in thought, Harry explained to both Warren and me.
“What you need is clean water, and the volume should be sufficient even without surface water, shouldn’t it? If so, rather than clinging to surface water, why not be satisfied with the aquifer water and completely hand over the surface water rights, neatly resolving any potential legal issues that might arise in the future?”
It was persuasive enough that Warren nodded. And as Harry brought up first what I had intended to persuade him with, I felt his competence once again. As Harry said, once we could freely draw water from the aquifer, there was no need for surface water. Compared to the clean water from the aquifer, it was polluted enough that we probably wouldn’t use it even if someone gave it to us.
“I find that proposal quite satisfactory. If we have our rights to the deep aquifer 1,000 feet underground recognized now through grandfathering, then even if regulations arise later, only we’ll be able to keep drawing water. From the county’s perspective, they’ll also be getting surface water rights back to resolve water shortage complaints, so it seems like a deal they’ll have a hard time refusing.”
When I readily agreed, Harry smiled deeply and held out a pen and power of attorney. I signed the power of attorney immediately and said,
“Please proceed with this.”
“Leave it to me.”
---
Fifteen days later, at the Napa County Water Quality Bureau.
Inside the director’s office, where the air conditioner blew a chilly breeze, Water Quality Manager Clark Anderson flipped through the report Harry had handed him page by page, repeatedly clearing his throat. He was a veteran civil servant who had spent more than twenty years in this field. He knew better than anyone that documents brought by Harry Montis were never easy to deal with.
“Harry, I understand what you’re thinking, but… 1,000 feet? Isn’t that too deep? If the other wineries find out, they’ll have my head. And this nitrate concentration data. In our official inspections, it has never once exceeded the threshold. I can’t grant a special drilling permit based solely on private data you brought in.”
Harry smiled leisurely, pretending to wipe away sweat. He knew that Clark’s talk of official inspections was, in truth, a shield to avoid responsibility.
“Clark, I’m saying this as a friend. We both know the reason your official data looks clean is because the inspection points are biased. But what do you think would happen if this report were leaked to the press? If a headline reads, ‘Napa County Neglects Surface Water Contamination,’ the people in downtown Napa won’t sit still.”
Clark’s face stiffened. Harry did not miss the opportunity and lowered his voice, continuing gently.
“I didn’t come here to put you in a difficult position. Quite the opposite—I came to help you. My client, Brian Choi, is a perfectionist. He says he won’t even look at contaminated water. So he’s brought a written pledge to return all of his stream water rights.”
The massive Harry took another palm-sized document from his pocket and placed it on the table. Clark’s eyes flashed.
“Returning water rights? Are you serious? Those rights would be enough to help quite a few chronic water shortage problems at nearby Bentley Farm and many of the smaller farms.”
“Exactly. You won’t have to suffer through complaints from farm owners whining about water shortages every summer. If you redistribute the surface water returned by Redwood to them, you’ll become Napa’s hero. In exchange, Redwood will drill at its own expense and use water from deep underground that no one else is using. Not a single penny from the county budget.”
It was a fairly persuasive proposal, and Clark began calculating in his head as if tapping away at a calculator. But then the inherent conservatism of a civil servant kicked in.
“But there’s no guarantee that water from 1,000 feet underground won’t affect nearby shallow wells. That could become a geological disaster.”
But as if he had been waiting for those words, Harry spread out a volcanic rock stratum analysis chart.
“That’s exactly why it’s 1,000 feet. As you know from the geological map, there’s a thick impermeable clay layer around 800 feet below this point. That means the water in the upper layer and the water in the lower layer are completely separated. Geologically speaking, it’s impossible for the neighbors’ 300-foot wells to dry up just because we draw water from below. I’ve attached a technical report guaranteeing that, and I’m staking my law license on it.”
Clark, the water quality manager, stared hard at the pile of documents Harry had presented. The justification of protecting the quality of Napa wine, the practical benefit of securing surface water rights to resolve complaints, and even a geological guarantee to provide a means of avoiding responsibility—everything had been perfectly prepared.
From Clark’s perspective, this was a petition he had no reason to reject.
“Harry… you’re the kind of bastard who’d go to hell and sell the devil drilling rights for boiler water.”
Thud!
A heavy stamp came down on the approval documents. Only then did Harry put his sweat-damp handkerchief back into his pocket and rise from his seat.
“Thank you, Clark. Today, you saved Napa’s future.”
Harry’s steps as he left the Water Quality Bureau were light enough to make it hard to believe he had such a massive build. As soon as he climbed into the waiting Escalade, he called Brian.
“It’s me. I got the permit.” “Good work, Harry. That was faster than expected.”
Even though a full fifteen days had passed, Brian’s voice over the phone was calm. He understood that, when dealing with American civil servants, meeting them and ultimately producing results in only fifteen days was no easy feat. Harry, meanwhile, lit a cigar and drew a faint, sardonic smile at the corner of his mouth.
“That may be true, but Redwood is going to get a little noisy from here on. That friend of ours, Clark Anderson, isn’t the type to distribute water rights fairly.”
“Isn’t that the sort of thing you, the Rainmaker, can handle?”
“Hahaha, that’s right. It’s just that things may get a bit… loud.”
“We can endure that much.”
“Then all you need to do is watch as everything is wrapped up perfectly. I’ll send in the drilling team starting tomorrow.”
“Do that.”
Harry exhaled a long stream of smoke and ended the call. For the first time in a while, he felt like he had done real work.
---
What woke Napa Valley in the early morning was not the chirping of birds, but the roar of heavy diesel engines. Three trailers carrying enormous yellow drilling rigs entered the main gate of Redwood Winery in a row. Drills fitted with huge, sharp diamond bits, the sort one might expect to see in Texas, entered the middle of the vineyard in imposing fashion.
“Wow, is that the deep drilling rig I’ve only heard about?”
Warren, wearing a large straw hat, stood at a distance and looked at the equipment kicking up clouds of dust with eyes full of admiration. At this time, equipment capable of drilling 1,000 feet in Napa Valley was something one could hardly even get a chance to see.
There were several reasons for that, one of which was cost. Geologically, Napa Valley had thick layers of volcanic rock, and drilling through that hard bedrock down to 1,000 feet required special diamond bits and large drilling equipment.
Another problem was that it was a job that could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, yet digging deep did not guarantee clean water. In fact, there was also the fear that if one drilled too deep, concentrations of boron, salinity, or arsenic could become strong enough to kill the vines.
“I hope the results are good.”
When I spoke calmly, Matt, the drilling team’s site manager, approached and extended a rough hand.
“You must be Mr. Brian Choi. I heard about you from Attorney Harry Montis. The volcanic rock layer beneath this point is solid, so we’ll have a bit of trouble, but we brought top-of-the-line equipment, so don’t worry. We’ll begin drilling today.”
But before Matt could even finish his boast, a commotion began to rise from the winery’s main gate, accompanied by the blare of horns. When they turned to look, two old tractors were blocking the entrance road, and behind them stood a line of more than a dozen pickup trucks.
“Redwood must stop construction at once!”
“Drive out the plunderers stealing our water!”
Angry shouts carried on the wind. At the front stood George Bentley, the old man from Bentley Farm, famous as the most conservative place in the area, holding a pitchfork aloft.
“So they’ve finally come.”
“You knew it would come to this. Just wait. Rainmaker isn’t the kind of man who handles things sloppily.”
Sure enough, before he had even finished speaking, a large black sedan slowly glided toward them. It had to be the car Harry was in.