Tucked down a quiet alley in Eastsound, a tiny wine shop glows like a portal. There’s no sidewalk sign, no grand tasting bar—just 440 square feet of warmth, bottles, and mischief. Step inside, and you’ll probably find Cole Sisson behind the counter, mid-story, grinning, pouring something strange and perfect into your glass.
This is Doe Bay Wine Company. This is The Orcas Project. And this is the story of a guy who left Las Vegas at the top of his game to chase something much more interesting: joy, community, and weird little wines with raccoons on the label.
High Stakes in the Desert
Before he was the most charming wineman on Orcas, Cole was a rising sommelier in Las Vegas. After college in Seattle, he landed a job with Michael Mina at the Bellagio—one of the city’s top-tier wine programs. He was tasting world-class bottles, serving celebrities, racking up Michelin stars, and living in a blur of velvet booths and decanted Bordeaux.
A vintage travel poster celebrating Cole Sisson as “The Wine Wizard of Orcas” - capturing the spirit of unique wines and island charm that define Doe Bay Wine Company.
It was impressive. It was exhausting. And eventually, it felt empty.
“I was at the top of the game,” Cole says. “But I started to turn against it. I missed real people. Real food. Real joy.”
So he walked away from the strip lights and into the vineyards of northern Spain. He worked with his hands. Learned to grow grapes. Ate simply. And, crucially, remembered where he came from.
“Orcas to Vegas: Wine and Shine” - A vintage poster illustrating Cole’s journey between two worlds: the glittering Las Vegas strip where he became a sommelier, and the Washington State ferry that brought him home.
Seattle Interlude, Orcas Calling
Back in Seattle, Cole tried to reenter city life. He settled in Ballard, interned with Washington wine legend Bob Betz, and kicked around Woodinville cellars. The plan was to build a career. But the island kept whispering.
“If I stayed in Seattle,” he realized, “I’d just be trying to make enough money to buy land on Orcas.”
So he stopped pretending. He moved home.
That summer visit turned permanent. Cole bought a slice of land and opened a wine shop in the alley behind the old Darvill’s building in Eastsound. Doe Bay Wine Company was born, named after the mossy, ocean-laced corner of Orcas where he’d grown up running wild. The shop was deliberately small, carefully curated, and full of soul.
“People have to work a little harder to find us,” Cole says. “That’s part of the magic.”
The Orcas Project: A Story in Every Bottle
Most wineries start with land. Cole started with people. He didn’t have a vineyard. He had friends. So he called them—winemakers in Walla Walla, the Willamette, the Gorge—and invited them to collaborate. One small batch at a time. No rules. Just great fruit, creative freedom, and one non-negotiable: each bottle had to feature original art from an Orcas Island artist.
Thus was born The Orcas Project—a rotating cast of winemakers, labels, stories, and creatures. One bottle might have a raccoon in a velvet smoking jacket (a nod to Fantastic Mr. Fox). Another might carry an oil painting of a crab done by Cole’s neighbor. Some are Albariños. Some are Grenaches. Some are Pinot Noirs with secret tattoos.
“Las Vegas: The City of Feelings” - A poster capturing Cole’s time in Vegas, where he reached the pinnacle of the sommelier world before realizing something essential was missing.
Each wine is a one-off, a postcard from a friendship. Cole jokingly calls it “emotional winemaking.” But that’s exactly what it is. It’s built on love, trust, and the desire to surprise.
“It lets me stay connected,” Cole says. “To the industry, to my friends, to the world outside the island.”
Doe Bay HQ: A Living Room with a Corkscrew
Back in the shop, the energy is different. There’s a shelf full of Washington wines you’ve never heard of but instantly want. There’s cheese, local bread, maybe some duck rillettes if you time it right. There’s music playing. Someone’s telling a joke. Someone’s nodding along as Cole describes a wine as “like licking the inside of a redwood barrel, in a good way.”
People come in looking for a bottle and end up staying for 45 minutes. There’s no tasting menu. No flights. Just Cole, pouring what he’s excited about today and giving you an experience you didn’t know you needed.
It’s not just hospitality. It’s storytelling. And Cole, whether he’s behind the counter or hosting a 30-person dinner in a field with Chilean winemakers and oyster shooters, is a natural at it.
The Island Effect
Cole isn’t trying to get rich. He’s trying to build something meaningful. He calls himself a “curator of experiences”, and it shows. Whether it’s stocking rare Madeira for a wine nerd, or slipping a bottle of island Syrah into someone’s tote who just wanted a picnic rosé, everything has intention. And a little mischief.
He still leaves the island often—checking in on barrels, meeting new winemakers, shaking hands and hugging old friends. But he always comes back. To Doe Bay. To Eastsound. To the porch at Brown Bear Baking with a coffee and a plan.
Because at the end of the day, this isn’t a story about wine. It’s a story about place. About an island kid who took the long way home. Who brought the world with him. And who turned a back-alley shop into a kind of magic.