We’re starting a vineyard part 9: Playing poker
My phone screen flashes enigmatic text messages: first “6,” then “14,” and finally “21.” No, this isn’t the sum of the uninterrupted yet salutary seconds during which Helenka and I stare, captivated, at Pusia the Cat on the MiniMini+ channel.
These aren’t lottery numbers either, but rather the depth, measured in meters, at which a huge drill bit, twenty centimeters in diameter, is currently located. For two days now, there’s been a fight for water on our property.
A major reason for choosing this location was to escape from the city, from the cursed civilization, to a place where you’re more likely to meet a helpful wild boar than a neighbor, and ironically, not even a few weeks have passed and we’re already thinking about how to bring this unwanted civilization closer to this piece of refuge.
A crew has been drilling our well since yesterday. There were four of them, but they weren’t drilling, they were just dropping in for reconnaissance. One started by snorting the property lines as if it were their secret method for detecting groundwater levels. Another was convinced they were coming straight to the drilling, without discussing trivial details like price. Still another was trying to convince me that the percussion method was superior to the drilled method. Well drillers, I was slowly coming to understand, only spoke a language they understood.
One thing’s for sure, though: none of them believe in dowsers, and geo-measurements are just theoretical gibberish good for advertising a contractor’s website. In practice, you point to the spot where you want the hole, the well workers fire up their machine, and to everyone’s delight, a poker game begins. But you quickly realize this isn’t the pleasant version of a Friday night with friends, but a different version, rigged to your disadvantage, straight from a Las Vegas casino. The meters fly by, you panic, multiplying your losses, and the well worker, with a genuine smile on his face, tightens the drill bit. Now I regret not having dug the first meter with my own shovel the day before; at least I would have saved a few hundred, just in time for Helenka’s diapers.