Stephanie was in an epoxy-lined, underground tank, made in concrete, about 10 feet under four churning wine presses. 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.

By 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. 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.