Sunset at Coonawarra was sublime. The harsh daylight and perpetual dust momentarily forgotten. The falling sun hit the rocky range and the skies danced from crimson to vermillion. A thrum of cicadas replaced the chorus of laughing kookaburras. “How good?” thought Craig, as he sank into his grandfather’s rocker on the property’s veranda, savouring his chilled Tooheys.

Then one sunset at Coonawarrah turned the red skies black.

“Boss, boss, come quickly!” said Big Foot, Craig’s right-hand man.

“What’s the John Dory mate?”