THE PORT // THE END // FIRST HARVEST // 23 YEAR BARREL AGED

The Last of the First Harvest
THIS TOOK ME 3 HOURS TO WRITE- I just sat there, thinking, and Remembering, as Hard As I could…
Every detail, Just Letting the tears Fall. - Damn I miss Him..
Not because i have one regret…. I dont - Not one…..
Just because I know how much he ould love to see today….
I think I will open a bottle of this tonight and pour and extra glass….
Here is to you Dad…. It Worked…
He wouldn't Believe it…
Promise Kept..

You spend your whole life trying to start something that matters.
And if you’re lucky—if you’re really lucky—you get to finish something too.
Something you Started Right Next to Your Father
Back when he was Yonger then you are Now….

This is THE END.
Twenty-three years in a barrel, waiting for us to be ready to let go.

It’s the last of our first harvest.
The final heartbeats of the very first fruit my father and I ever picked together.
The first Syrah we ever grew, the first time the dream became real….
the first time the land finally gave back after years of asking nothing but faith.

I can still see him there—
that morning, dust floating in the air like gold flakes of grace.
The hum of the tractor. The ache in my back.
The bins filling with fruit that looked like black eyes.
And my dad—
boots black with juice, his hands rough from work and time,
his eyes squinting into the early light,
the way a man does when he’s staring at everything he’s ever hoped for and finally sees it take shape.

He didn’t say a word.
He just smiled—small and certain.
He looked younger than me today
The Man, who as a boy, dreamed of this very moment.

That’s where this bottle comes from.
From a vineyard,
From a Dream…

The hum of the tractor is gone now.
The bins are long since emptied.
The rows have been replanted, the seasons have passed,
Tthe people at table have changed,
More Seats
More Faces.
But when I hold this bottle, I can still hear it all—
the rattle of the engine, the gravel under our boots,
the sound of my father’s quiet pride in the space between words.

You see, THE END isn’t about endings at all.
It’s about what happens after you’ve given everything you have—
and the world hands you back a moment so pure, you never recover from it.

We didn’t plan to make Port.
We didn’t even know we could.
We just had too much fruit and not enough buyers—
a familiar problem for anyone who’s ever loved something more than it loves them back.

A friend took a taste and said,
“You could make a hell of a Port out of this.”
And my dad, always game, just said, “Let’s see.”

So we did.
No grand plan. No labels. No audience.
Just two men and a few tons of forgotten grapes,
deciding to turn what was left behind into something beautiful.

We fortified it. We tucked it away. We forgot about it.
Years turned into decades.
And all the while, that Port sat there in the dark,
getting better while we got older.

That’s what time does.
It doesn’t heal, not really.
It just teaches things how to grow

Now, twenty-three years later, what’s left isn’t wine—it’s memory,
aged in oak and silence,
distilled down to the essence of everything we’ve tried to become.

Pour it into a glass, and you can see the years floating inside:
dark as midnight, rimmed in red like a dying ember.
Smells like fig and walnut, caramel and leather,
like the inside of an old church when the light cuts through the dust.

Taste it, and you’ll feel it fight you a little—
the way the truth does.
It starts sweet, but there’s a weight behind it.
Something heavy. Something earned.
Something that reminds you that joy and grief share the same root system.

This is the last of that harvest.
The final pages of the first chapter.
And even though I knew this day was coming, I wasn’t ready.
Because endings feel like theft.
They take what you love and give you wisdom you never asked for.

So we’re holding on tight—white-knuckled—trying not to let it go too fast.
Just 20 cases.
That’s all we’re releasing.
Because you don’t sell something like this.
You share it. You whisper it. You hand it to someone who’ll understand what it cost.

When my father used to pour Port, he’d bring out these tiny glasses that belonged to my great-grandmother. They were delicate, thin as the line between a laugh and a tear.

He’d fill them to the brim and pass them around the table.
No toast, no speech. Just a simple,
“Lordy, that’s too good.”

That was his church.
That was his prayer.
A communion of family and friends,
not in a chapel, but in the kitchen—under bad light,
surrounded by noise and love and the smell of something burning in the oven.

That’s what this bottle is.
It’s that moment—trapped and waiting—so you can pour it back into the world.

People ask me why we call it THE END.
I tell them because it’s the truth.
And I don’t mean that in a sad way.
Endings are proof that something worth remembering happened.
That you showed up. You worked. You stayed. You believed.

It’s not a goodbye. It’s a thank you.
A full stop after a story worth reading twice.

This bottle is proof that dirt can turn into memory.
That love can ferment into something holy.
That fathers can live forever—if you just keep the glass half full.

So here’s to the first harvest,
and to the last of it.
Here’s to the men who built something that will outlive them.
To the sons still trying to understand what that means.
To the land that holds both of us now.

This is THE END—
and the most beautiful thing about it is that we actually got to finish it.23 YEARS UNDER THE DUST AND QUIET

For twenty-three years, these barrels have rested in silence — through births, harvests, heartbreaks, and celebrations. While the world changed outside, this Port was down there breathing, deepening, turning into something far beyond what we started.

It’s dark, rich, and layered — a map of time written in tannin and oak.
Pour a glass and you’ll find black plum, fig, caramelized sugar, toasted walnut, and the faintest smoke of old wood. Let it sit. It unfolds like a memory. Slow. Honest. Earned.

The finish is endless — the kind of finish that reminds you that all good things take their time… and that nothing truly beautiful lasts forever.

THE RELEASE

We’ve seen what our Ports have become:
COMMUNION – $250
PAPA – $250
LIONHART – $250
MERCY – $325
NO QUARTER – $250
BLACK FLAG – $500
TEN YEARS AT SEA – $368
DARK SEAS – $375
MAN O’ WAR – $450

Each one a monument to a moment in time.
But THE END is different.

It’s not just the last barrel of the first harvest —
it’s the bookend to a story that changed our family forever.

And because we hate goodbyes, we’re holding on tight.
We’re only letting 20 cases slip through our fingers this year —
just enough to share with those who understand what this really means.

We’ve priced it at $50 — because some things aren’t meant to be collected.
They’re meant to be shared.

A FATHER’S LESSON

My dad used to pour Port at every family gathering.
He’d pull out these tiny crystal glasses that belonged to my great-grandmother — delicate as thistle, thin as faith — fill them to the brim, hand one to everyone in the room, and say,
“Lordy, that’s too good.”

And he was right.

He believed Port wasn’t a drink — it was a way to slow down time.
It was a way to gather. To remember. To give thanks.
He believed in the communion of spirit, of family, of dirt.

Every time we raise a glass of this wine, we’re right back there with him — standing in the vineyard, watching the fruit of that first harvest roll in, both of us a little younger, a little more hopeful, and unaware that we were building something that would outlast us both.

A FINAL TOAST

To endings that take 23 years to arrive.
To fathers who teach through example.
To sons who carry it forward.
To vineyards that outlive their planters.
And to Port — the slowest, sweetest reminder that love and time are the same thing.

This is THE END —
but it’s also the proof that we did it.

Raise a glass.
Share it with someone you love.
And remember — the end is only beautiful because the beginning was real.

THE END — 23 YEARS BARREL AGED PORT
$50 | 20 Cases Total | From Our First Harvest
GET YOURS BEFORE IT’S GONE →