The Day Water Came

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It took four tries to find water.

I wrote before about how my grandfather wouldn’t settle for “good enough.” He wanted more for his land—and his family. So we drilled. Again and again. And then… finally… success.

I still remember that day.

The air smelled like fresh-cut stone—strange, sharp, and earthy. The drill head was spinning deep in the ground, cooled by constant streams of water that turned to foam and frothed up from the earth like a river. That foam was everything to me as a child. I was just 7, and all I saw was a wild, magical game.

The drilling went on for days—loud, echoing through the nights. It should’ve been scary, but I wasn’t afraid. I was curious. I was excited.

And then the water came.

At first, it was muddy from the drilling—brown, thick, heavy. But we didn’t care. We were relieved. Excited. It meant the well had worked. It meant life for our trees.

A week later, the water started to run clear. Cold and clean. It was the best water I’ve ever tasted.

Some hot summer days, I used to sit in front of the big pipe where the water gushed out from the well, before it got directed to the trees. I’d let it splash on me, full force. I thought it was better than a pool. That pressure, that cooling blast—it was pure joy to my younger self. More than enough. Today? Well… now I do wish I had a pool. But I wouldn’t trade those childhood memories for anything.

Thirty years have passed since that well came to life. And here I am—still just as excited, still unbelievably happy to be sharing these stories with you… and soon, our olive oil too.

Because it all comes from the same place: deep roots, hard work, and the simple beauty of water, land, and love.