Katrina and the Cajun Navy - 7 Years Later (Pt. 4)

 

This is the fifth installment on this topic.

To read from the beginning please go to posts beginning 9/20/12.

Before, during and since the Big Girl had passed through, our consumption of news programming from all types of media outlets had been virtually uninterrupted.  From the time we began to organize and mobilize on Tuesday morning, our information had come exclusively from radio.  In the now well-established age of 24-hour news coupled with the developing genre of reality television, aggressive media seemed intent on dramatizing the already dramatic.  Achieving increased market share was the primary goal to be achieved by many so-called "news organizations".  Once informative, fact-based news reporting was being replaced in this generation by often inflammatory and polarizing cable networks boldly promoting political, social and religious agendas as purported "news".

Add to the mix the exploding social media of the internet, the reporting of events took on the characteristics of armies on the battlefield fighting to the death for small pieces of ground.  If in the past, people consuming media wanted to be occasionally titillated by risque double entendre, they had now been transformed  into voracious gluttons for a diet of over-the-top shock.

What chills the conscience on Tuesday becomes the norm by Wednesday, and has to be met and exceeded by Thursday.  With these underpinnings, national media had to transform the information in the developing drama post-Katrina and entertain the citizens of the world on their unlimited supply of electronic devices

Inside of the levees though, the source of the news had been thrown back into the relative Dark Ages.  Limited communication made the translation of piecemeal information into a story unreliable.  In many cases reporting of events was over- dramatized guesswork.  Across the country and the world, those outside of the levees teetered on the edges of their seats as events unfolded.

It could be said that there had previously been a relatively standard pattern to the development of most disasters.  The storm, or other event, would approach, strike and create a peak of destruction and then subside.  During the final phase, rescue and re-building resources could enter the affected areas and render aid. 

Unlike the flooding in the case of many natural disasters that soon subsided after the onslaught of the rising waters, this situation was deteriorating tragically and disproportionately with the passing hours.  The water rose, and then it stayed.

Horribly, we would find out later, its victims in those first hours and days, were unsuspecting elderly and/or handicapped.  Surely, to their horror, they awoke trapped by rising flood waters, many in their own beds, in their own homes.  Nowhere to go.

Unable to flee or protect themselves.  Many who could flee the rising water, found their way into their attics, only to be eventually confronted there with stagnating air that would heat to desert-like temperatures as the sun rose and passed across the south Louisiana sky.  No relief was provided by the humid, Mississippi Delta nights that cooled only into the 80's before quickly transitioning in the daylight hours into virtual outdoor saunas.

Add to all of this, the fact that assistance was not flowing freely into the city.  Passionate people felt compelled to do something to assist, and help was mobilizing all over the country, and the world.    However, getting into the flooded bowl of the city was proving to be more difficult than our entrance in the early hours of the crisis.  As the hours passed, the bureaucracy grew.

We were happy to be inside, and to be in
a position to do something positive.  I think we all sub-consciously expected to enter this American city and promptly have access to resources.  You know, "We can put a man on the moon, but..."  Surprisingly, no...stunningly, we were carrying what came to be, relatively speaking, enviable resources.  What we had was minimal, but in what appeared to be a devastated infrastructure, we would  hold on tight to the tools we had.

Communication was a different story.  OK.  No it wasn't.  Land telephone lines were down, and like the electricity, old-fashioned phone communication was probably out for days, if not weeks.







But in this wireless era we would be OK with our cell phones.

OK, no we wouldn't.  In the age of ever-expanding digital communication we believed that contact with the world was always at our fingertips.  Wrong again!  Apparently, a few downed or damaged cellular towers could disable communication as easily as downing a few old-fashioned radio towers or telephone poles could.



Limited texting would become available in a day or so, but for providing communication either inside or outside of the levees, cell phones were about as useful as two paper cups on a string.  Whodathunkit???

Police, fire, rescue, emergency personnel and volunteers could communicate with each other on only a single frequency.  Throughout the entire metropolitan area of the city, one frequency was being used in a make-shift party-line mode.  Everyone could talk, and deciphering the identity and location of the participants was as challenging as the message itself.  Nothing seemed to be coordinated, and people were in desperate need in conditions that appeared insurmountable.

Initially, we were just hopeful that we might be able to be helpful.  As the hours passed, we experienced a growing sense that we were absolutely essential to a sorely deficient rescue effort and that we might even save a few lives.  That sense of urgency and potential usefulness in such an indescribably huge event filtered, and maybe blocked out completely any apprehension, fear or hesitation.  In a situation in which good judgment would have otherwise produced concern, caution, planning and possibly retreat, we continued blindly on our unwavering course into the unknown.  The familiar surrounding of this great city that we loved provided comfort and hope keeping safer, conservative judgment at bay.

Our determination and the need to adapt to our surroundings and circumstances left no time or opportunity for worry.  We would later discover that our families , out of contact and feeding on the media hyperbole were beyond anxious.  Many, we would learn were downright scared for us, fearing the worst.  I'm sure that some were angry at us for our foolishness...at our ages.  With no direct contact they found it easy to work themselves up into a frenzied combination of fear and anxiety.  Fortunately for us, they could not confront us about it until later, after they knew we were safe.

Focused on the purpose of our mission, on the edge of the great Mississippi River and in the heart of the now devastated city, we were still waiting.  With our boats still trailered and not in the water, our frustration was compounded by delays.  Adrenaline staved off fatigue from the day already full of activity and high drama.  The boats were not afloat.   Our constant thought was, “There are people in attics, on rooftops and in need.  Let’s go!”, while "Hurry up and wait" seemed to be the resonant, underlying theme.  

Finally our long line of trucks and boats weaved around the Casino building at the foot of historic Canal Street like a Chinese parade dragon.

We came to a halt facing down-river toward the convention center and the river bridge, into the direction from which we had come.  We had made almost a full circle around the huge casino and found ourselves at the front of the pack.  While waiting in line, we had gathered some sketchy details about the situation in the rest of the city.

From the foot of Canal Street we could see the flood waters only a couple of blocks away.  It was high and dry from the river levee almost to Bourbon Street where ankle deep water began a northward progression to a full 12' depth a few miles away at the Pontchartrain lakefront.

The only area that the broken levees and the lake's waters had left accessible by land was a strip along the crescent of the Mississippi River, as narrow as only a few blocks in some areas.  It seemed odd that the area closest to the river would spared the wrath of the flood, but centuries of pre-levee flooding and silting had created this high ground upon which this city was born.  

We would learn that the buildings, vehicles and virtually all of the assets of the New Orleans Police Department were under water.  All of the assets except the human ones.  At the front of the line we now occupied, we encountered two gentlemen in street attire.  


They presented as authority figures and acted as if they were overseeing a plan of action directed at our goal.  Lt. Dean and Capt. Bayard of the New Orleans Police Department appeared fatigued, but they were aggressively organizing and directing boat owners, and assigning groups for deployment.  Surprisingly, I recognized Timmy Bayard as a fellow alum of Brother Martin High School and a guy with whom I used to occasionally play pick up basketball 30+ years ago.  Their enthusiasm and devotion to what they were doing was evident as they busily attempted to transform a hodge-podge rescue operation into a well-oiled machine.

It was determined that we would deploy to that part of the Ninth Ward of Orleans Parish separated from the Lower Ninth Ward by the Industrial Canal.  The Inner Harbor Navigation Canal (its proper name) is a man-made canal, with locks,  connecting Lake Pontchartrain to the Mississippi River.  As its nickname implies, it is used for docking, repairs and heavy industrial activities related to shipping.  Three major levee breaches had occurred on the eastern side of the canal opening the way for  indistinguishable lake and river waters to flow mercilessly into  the largely-residential Lower Ninth Ward.  By this time it was entirely inundated.

The Upper Ninth Ward received most of its flood waters from levee breaks nearer the lake in the 17th Street and London Avenue Canals.  These flooded areas were accessible by vehicles only from dry ground in the area of the river.  Because of the location of downtown and the French Quarter on the uphill side of the Mississippi's crescent where the river flows north, we would need to drive north, parallel to the river to approach our destination.  

The drive would be less than 3 miles.  Under normal conditions, absent debris and downed trees and power lines, it would take less than 10 minutes.  The planned launch site was near enough to the levee breaks that we were cautioned not to motor our boats within two blocks of them.  Officers' Bayard and Dean provided instructions referencing Poland Avenue, the Lower Ninth Ward, the St. Claude Avenue Bridge and similar local landmarks.

Though these were familiar to me, my southwest Cajun podnas were like deer in the headlights.  They assumed, without knowing, that I had some idea of where we would be going.  Though they were all hardened blue collar country boys, they all were dealing with their own personal trepidations in this strange place. Most of them could find their way out of the Southwest Louisiana marshes in the dark, while dragging a boatload of freshly-killed game, but they were completely unfamiliar with the city’s confusing web of tangled streets.

Laid out over hundreds of years, as dry ground was re-claimed from swamps, the city's streets are confusing to motorists with maps, and more so to southwest Louisiana boaters without them.  Our hopes were to have an escort to our destination and guides at our sides beyond that to keep order and to conduct an effective and efficient rescue operation.

My concerns heightened when I witnessed Lt. Dean re-explain his instructions three times to our blue-jean clad NOPD escort officer.  It was some consolation that our group would be able to remain together.  If our guide got lost we would all be lost together.  In any event, there was devastation throughout the city and if we didn't wind up where we were supposed to be, there surely would be ample work to keep us busy.   With no hesitation, and with blind trust, our parade dragon fell in behind our unsure escort.  We eased slowly around the casino again, across Canal Street and into the famous French Quarter.

Decatur Street

Decatur Street is the street closest to the river running parallel to it through the Vieux Carré, or the “Old Square” as it was named by the original French settlers who laid out the city in a grid on this limited area of high ground.  The area, approximately 13 blocks along the riverfront and 6-8 blocks deep had come to be known worldwide as the French Quarter.  To locals it is simply “The Quarter”.  When New Orleans was settled in the early 1700’s, the Quarter was high ground surrounded by lowlands and swamps.  Those lower areas would be claimed over the years for farming, then for residential and commercial development as this world-class trade center grew. 

Ferdinand DeSoto of Spain "discovered" the mighty river in 1542, though it had been known and used by Native Americans for thousands of years.  Though the   Spanish claimed it, they found the area too wild and made no attempt to settle it.  In 1682 LaSalle claimed it for France and named it “Louisiane” for France’s King Louis XIV who was looking to expand his empire.  On Mardi Gras day in 1699 Iberville reached the mouth of the Mississippi River from the Gulf of Mexico.  However, the entrance to the river was so treacherous that he established a permanent settlement on the gulf coast, rather than risk losing his ships trying to enter the river's mouth.

In 1718 Iberville’s brother, Bienville created a permanent settlement in a crescent shaped section of the river and named it in honor of the Duc d’Orleans.  The site chosen was a small area of high ground that had long been used by local Indians as a depot and market for goods.  The location was ideal as it was a short distance between the river and the large shallow lake to the north named by the French settlers for the Duke of Pontchartrain.  Nearly three centuries later, Katrina (with the help of failed levees) had in short course turned these historically friendly water bodies into weapons of destruction during her swift pass through the city.

Decatur Street was high and dry as was most of the French Quarter.  The amount of clutter and fallen trees increased as we approached Cafe' du Monde and Jackson Square, both of which, except for the storm, would have been packed with tourists and locals seeking the pleasure of some beignets and take in the views of the old military square.

Just past the square and just before the historic French Market, a large ornamental tree blocked 2/3rds of the roadway.  Slowing and creeping to the side, against the high concrete curb,  we squeezed our train past it, to be greeted by the twisted and tattered cloth awnings of the old market.



Past the old open air market and at the outer boundary of the Quarter rests the beautiful old U.S. Mint building.  Just before it, sat what appeared to be a huge, bronze aluminum foil ball, the size of a dump truck.  On a closer look, it appeared that the entire copper roof of the historic building had been stripped off, rolled into a ball and placed curbside for pickup.


Across Esplanade Avenue, passing through the Fauborg-Marigny District, the travel became more treacherous with more downed lines, trees and debris.  Our forward travel was blocked at the T-intersection of Royal Street with Poland Avenue by the imposing F. Edward Hebert Naval Compound, named for the only person I can recall who served the area in the U.S. Congress while I was growing up.

We turned to the left, away from the river, heading up Poland Avenue.   Like many other streets in town it is divided by a neutral ground (median) on which grow stately old live oaks.  A few blocks up, we approached a location manned by four or five Wildlife & Fisheries agents.  A block or more beyond their location, an accumulation of 50-100 locals could be seen at the edge of the flood waters.

Wildlife Agent Eddie Skinner had the unfortunate responsibility of throwing cold water on our mission. 

“I don’t know who sent you, but we’re shutting down this location.  We can’t send y’all out there without supervision or security.”

Ultimately, after towing the department line of bureaucratic talk speaking generally to safety and security, he reluctantly got to the point.  He described the situation as being one fueled by some of the locals escaping the flood waters with their salvaged possessions consisting more of “their liquor instead of their clothes”.    It had been a long day and these folks were apparently, young enough, healthy enough and close enough to waters edge to wade out with some essentials.  Agent Skinner as the official representative of the Department of Wildlife & Fisheries , and hence the great State of Louisiana, had been determined that a definite security risk was presented.  We could not blame him, despite our desire to get started.


Clearly it had been a long day for the agents and the residents whose lives had been upended by the storm and the aftermath of the broken levees.  The agent, with little sleep since passage of the storm, were not in a position to competently provide security or supervise continued rescue efforts into the evening.  He politely, but firmly put the quietus on our enthusiasm, wisely noting that our intentions would be of little value if our operations could not be carried out safely.  Having heard stories from older generations of the historically rough nature of the Lower Ninth Ward well back into the 19th century, my argument with Agent Skinner ended.  Our parade dragon weaved its way through the high, dry streets nestled against the riverfront, retracing its path back to our starting point at the foot of Canal Street.

Lt. Dean, still at work, offered to direct us to another area to begin our work during the evening, but good sense prevailed.  Some of the group who had previously conducted nighttime search operations in areas with which they were familiar, encouraged us to start out fresh at daybreak rather than encounter the risks of an evening search in an unfamiliar area distorted by streets that had been transformed into canals.  Having no home base, we were directed by officers to park on the street car (trolley) tracks in the median of Canal Street.

These tracks had recently been built on this “neutral ground”, as it is known by Orleanians, to be used by new, modern trolleys to cover expanded routes in the city.  It was a bold and aggressive attempt by the city administration to use the world-renowned allure of the St. Charles Avenue streetcars to capture a larger share of the tourism market while providing expanded mass transit for the city.  The tracks, now vacant, would be our home for the night.

Home Sweet Home

Our enthusiasm temporarily bridled, we were still animated after parking our vehicles in the heart of one of the most historic cities in the world.  At least within a 3 or 4 block area, we could establish some semblance of normalcy.  The towering hotels and office buildings, usually brightly lit and teeming with activity throughout the night, were dark against the starlit night sky.  The only light came from the covered overhang of the casino and an area a few blocks up Canal Street, at the water’s edge, near Bourbon Street.

Under the Harrah’s Casino overhang that usually protected busloads of visitors willing to drop cash into the coffers of the state and Harrah's in hopes of taking home a jackpot, was located the new headquarters of law enforcement operations of the New Orleans Police Department.  With most of their station houses and vehicles underwater, this would be the NOPD command center for the next week or more.

Up Canal Street, a giant, blinking warning arrow could be seen, placed there to direct, away from the new canals of the city, whatever vehicles that might wander there.  Our adventure took on the air of a camp out among close friends filled with stories and laughter.  With trucks and boats resting under the clear starlit sky, in the balmy humidity of the Big Easy, we tried to claim our spots on the concrete and talk about the day, the beginning of which seemed like weeks ago.  There was no trepidation or concern with what might lie ahead of us.

The wheel of one of the boat trailers had lost a bearing.  Mechanical as I am (or am not) my only clue that this was really not a good thing was the sight of the boat, on its trailer, in the right lane of the six lane street.  Against the backdrop of the huge casino building, it was disconnected from its land transportation and appeared to be abandoned without an owner.  Without new bearings, the trailer would become a part of the abandoned property dotting the landscape.

Four members of our group decided that a one and a half hour drive back up Interstate 10 to Baton Rouge was the only hope to get the parts to make the needed repairs.  There were no stores functioning in the metropolitan New Orleans area, and looting an auto parts store did not seem to be an acceptable option.  We knew that security at the edges of the City was tight, and were fearful that anyone leaving the confines of the disaster would not be allowed to return.  As they left, we had no idea if we'd see them again before returning home. 

Those of us who remained behind shared the chips, crackers, cookies and Gatorade we had.  Speculating on what the morning would hold and whether the four who ventured out would return, each of us began to trail off to try to find a place to perch for the evening to try to get some rest.  We chose our spots on the curbs, in the beds of pickup trucks, on boat decks or in truck cabs, to rest or to try to sleep.

By 1:00 a.m., the bearing hunters had returned with extra bearings and Waffle House sandwiches to supplement our snacks.  They had come upon an open restaurant south of Baton Rouge and had claimed the last of its food supply that had been depleted by the mass of evacuees.  They proudly described their negotiation of a $70 discount off of the $240 bill after detailing the nature of our mission.  This was the first of an endless series of unsolicited acts of generosity and kindness we would witness over the course of the next few days.

TO BE CONTINUED