7-9
7.
Upon returning to the Chef Menteur ”dock” we had lukewarm water and sodas to choke down giant white pills given to us by someone with NOPD. We were told that these were to fight off infection we might contract from being in the stagnating water and all that with which it was mixed. Until that moment, it had not occurred to me that the water in which we had spent most of the day was any different than the water of Lake Pontchartrain in which we swam as children. Then, we were only occasionally deterred by periodic warnings following rains due to elevated bacteria levels.
Sara’s empty stomach reacted violently to the medication. She spent most of the return trip with her head buried in an old Burger King cup that she periodically emptied out of the window. It was not a pleasant ride back for her, for this and other reasons.
As the setting sun began to cast long shadows on the highway, our group headed back down The Chef toward the City. We were joined in a single line by Louisiana and Texas Wildlife vehicles, various law enforcement officers and other rescue groups. Local radio still reported large crowds in the Superdome without food or water and masses still accumulated on the elevated interstate. Locals wandered The Chef outside of buildings battered by the storm and by those in search of food, water, auto parts and electronics.
Again, the word “surreal” occurred to me as the apt description of the scene, but that was soon to be an understatement. Slowing to pass cluttered portions of roadway, we were passed by four or five people in a mail truck. They did not appear to be postal service employees. Then, along the sidewalk drove an odd piece of equipment about 10 feet tall, resembling a sort of lift truck. With two occupants, it sped by of us as fast as it could go, toward the interstate. As our line of trucks and boats reached the interstate overpass under which we needed to pass to regain entry to the City, it came to a halt.
From my position about 10 vehicles back, I gazed toward the overpass. Across the road I could see the mail truck, the lift truck, an 18-wheeler, a U-haul, various vehicles and maybe as many as 200 people. Whether they wanted attention, food and water, or a confrontation, it was clear that this was an intentional roadblock.
Not for the first time, and not for the last, I thought about my children back home. The two youngest, in first and third grade, had some comprehension that mom and dad had gone to help people. The older three, in college and beyond, were scared and somewhat angry with us. None of them could have imagined that their crazy parents were at that moment surrounded on three sides by floodwaters and stalled at a roadblock by hungry, frustrated and angry strangers.
Gradually, in a subdued but obvious show of force, law enforcement vehicles and Wildlife & Fisheries trucks with boats in tow glided toward the overpass along each side of the stopped caravan. The large pickup trucks with their dark, tinted windows, and flashing lights moved to the front. With black barrels of shotguns and long rifles in open view, they eventually provided sufficient encouragement for the blockade to yield. The line of haggard, good Samaritans passed, lacking any resources to allow them to offer transport, food, water, or shelter.
Was this final adventure of the day? Not by a long shot.
8.
Local radio reported that the levee breaks had still not been sealed, but that the levels in the lake and City had equalized. We did not know if that level would allow us to again pass safely through the water to return to our downtown campground. Fortunately, this was not our next adventure. Within a few minutes, our water passage safely accomplished, we moved on the elevated interstate toward the Superdome.
News stories confirmed that no food or water had arrived. Transport out of the City had still not been arranged for those stranded by the storm. In the Superdome, the “shelter of last resort”, 25,000 or more stranded citizens dreaded the prospect of a fourth night in the un-air-conditioned Dome with limited food and water. On our return, we passed uncounted thousands on the 5-mile stretch of interstate. It was not until we exited to travel the last half-mile from the interstate to Canal Street that we came face to face with the most graphic indication of the extent to which the situation had mushroomed during the course of this Wednesday.
Our line approached the area of the Morial Convention Center, outside of which a few hundred individuals had wandered the sidewalks the night before. Tonight the streets were clogged like St. Charles Avenue on Mardi Gras Day, only there was no celebrating and there were no beads. My internal adrenaline pump moved to “MAX”, as our parade came to a halt surrounded by the crowd. Television reports of various riots and NBA victory celebrations with overturned vehicles in flames ran through my brain. I did not know the state of mind of these masses of people, and all sorts of wild imaginings ran through my head as we sat stalled in their midst.
I worried for the boats of my generous comrades who had ventured into the City, not understanding all of what they had agreed to do, or what it had evolved to be. Next to the car, a young man walked onto a large piece of plywood on wheels teetering on the curb. “BAM!” Sara and I jumped. Her continued problems caused by the medication and lack of food only heightened her reaction to the sudden loud noise. If this did not snap us to attention, the single gunshot heard moments later did, though we never saw a gun, a shooter or a victim.
After about five minutes of anxious waiting, we made the turn and moved smoothly and safely through the crowd. Not a scratch. Our space still “reserved”, we parked three wide and 12 deep on the “neutral ground” of Canal Street.
No group works harder or better than the R & R family. Their leader has somehow instilled in them his own work ethic and pride in providing a quality product. They also play hard, and playing often involves beer. Lots of beer. It was a clear indication of the seriousness with which they undertook this mission that their coolers were packed with water and cola, but not beer.
Our crew discarded its infected clothes and cleaned up with disinfectant wipes or bottled water or bleach. Lacking chicken or pots on which to cook gumbo as this group would normally do, each of us chose a spot on the curb, or on a tailgate, to feast on chips, crackers, warm Coke and bottled water.
A long day over. Time to rest. Well, not yet …
9.
The NOPD command center was abuzz across the street under the covered drive in front of Harrah’s Casino. The heightened unrest at the Convention Center obviously contributed to the elevated level of activity of the police. Tonight, the Tactical Unit, or SWAT team, was huddled together in full gear, fully armed and 40+ strong. There was no shortage of adrenaline there either.
Barely three blocks from the masses at the Convention Center, our position was far from secure. In the event of problems that the small contingent of police could not contain, we were sitting ducks, barely armed with nowhere to go. The mighty Mississippi was on one side and Canal Street was under water just six blocks away in the other direction. To the north was the French Quarter, high and dry, but it was bounded on three sides by water. The only dry exit route required passage by or near the Convention Center. That route provided the only access to the river bridge and the outside world. At what point does a body exhaust its capability to produce adrenaline?
In this atmosphere, everyone independently began considering whether to stay or leave. Our supplies were low and our hopes to get fuel at the police command were dashed by the absence of the fuel truck that had been there the night before. We knew that there were more folks to pull out; especially those in the high-rise, but safety now seemed to be a very real concern. Simultaneously, we were listening to local broadcast radio stations, law enforcement radio communications and discussions between police personnel across the street. Our communication outside was limited to text messaging on some of our cell phones, and we began to report in to those family members we could reach.
Sitting at the wheel of my parked truck, I was startled by a police officer who appeared at the driver’s window of the truck without any warning.
“We need your help, sir. Are you in charge here?”
That I might be in charge was an impression that Ronny allowed to occur in his attempts to avoid being cast into the limelight. Much of the communication with outside authority had passed through Sara or me.
I responded, “What do you need?”
The young SWAT officer explained that two of their team had not returned from a late afternoon assignment, and, being unable to contact them, four others had been sent in to a flooded downtown neighborhood. None of them had been heard from and it was now nearly 9:00 o’clock p.m. They wanted boats with operators to get members of their unit into the area north of Claiborne Avenue on Esplanade Avenue between Broad Street and City Park.
Esplanade Avenue begins at the northeastern corner of the French Quarter and runs west-northwest to the south end of City Park. Though still an impressive thoroughfare of large stately homes along oak lined sidewalks, it had aged and lost much of its original luster. Like most of the City tonight though, it was a dark foreboding canal, inhabited by unknown characters, with unknown motives. The lawyer in me wanted details about the mission and questioned the sanity of sending three out-of-towners with no knowledge of the City on a search and rescue mission wearing only T-shirts, shorts and tennis shoes.
My concern heightened as the members of the Tactical Unit gathered around encased in their body armor and armed to the teeth. The only “plan” suggested was to go into the area and look for the men until they were found.
Eventually, the officer said, “Look, you’re either gonna help us or you’re not. It’s up to you.”
Ronny was brought into the conversation. After 10 minutes, he noted in frustration that the officer had told him three different stories while trying to engage our help. Tensions were high. Unknown dangers, whether real or imagined, appeared to be all around. Now some of the group was being asked to carry three boatloads of tactical specialists into the dark bowels of “New Venice” to rescue six armed officers whose fate was unknown. The choice was soon removed when the desperate officer declared Marshall Law, commandeering the boats. Of course, Marshall Law was not in effect and he had no authority to commandeer the boats, but it was his last resort.
Ronny Lovett would never force his people to put themselves in danger or do what he would not do himself. No doubt his heart was heavy and his concern great. However, I suspect that he was close enough to this crew of high-spirited adventurers to know that there would be at least three willing volunteers. The boats were promptly manned and on their way to launch off one of the I-10 exit ramps near Esplanade Avenue. For 5½ hours, we did not know if we would ever see them again. When they left, we did not know for certain that we could hold our position until they returned. Two things were certain: We were not leaving until they returned, but we were leaving when they returned.
By now, Sara had a new cause and forced herself to recover from the three hours of retching, nausea and headache caused by the unknown medication and lack of food. She sought out the captain of the Tac Unit. He only thought he’d had a hard day before the moment she found him. Eventually, a dialogue developed as he became aware that our group was there at the request of the governor. Of course, this was a slightly exaggerated impression Sara created with an appropriate stretch of the facts under the circumstances. The Tac Cap feigned regret over his officer’s unilateral declaration of Marshall Law to commandeer the boats, and he provided no less than five apologies. More would have come had I not interrupted him. I explained that we would be pleased if the mission would be successful and our friends returned safely. In that case, I told him his apologies were unnecessary. However, if they did not return safely, his apologies meant nothing.
All day we had worked side by side with members of the Narcotics Division of the NOPD and we had befriended each other. That group was outraged that the Tac Unit had infiltrated our ranks and stolen our people as they did. It made for a colorful discussion to pass the next few hours while we waited without word.
Near midnight, a troop carrier exited Canal Street into the light of the covered Harrah’s drive. Cheers erupted as officers in SWAT gear and fatigues greeted each other, two even hugging. This appeared to be their lost comrades, but we got no report on the status of ours. I crossed the street and asked the Tac Cap for a report.
“We got radio contact and the boats are on their way”, he said.
Half an hour later, not knowing if “on their way” meant by water or land, I was told that they were about a mile away. 45 minutes after that, I was told they were about ¼ mile away. Finally, by 1:30 a.m., our guys drove up to our cheers and celebrations.
During the 5½-hour wait, nearly the entire contingent of police across the street had, at one point, scrambled and sped off in the direction of the Convention Center. It was immediately apparent that we were on our own, both now and should there be problems later. It was also clear that whatever trouble might be brewing three blocks over, had not resolved. As they rushed off, Capt. Bayard, at the end of his 18-hour day, yelled,
“There are not enough of you to deal with them.”
No one listened. Fortunately, about 30 minutes later, they returned.
It became evident later that the crowd was not confronting the police. A small, despicable, criminal element, that was despicable and criminal before Hurricane Katrina, was confronting, intimidating and assaulting the beleaguered crowd at the Convention Center and the police when given the opportunity. There was no way to know that from our time and place. Upon return of our three boat captains, available fuel was dispersed and we were off at 2:00 a.m. for Lake Charles.
Our trip was diverted to Boutte, south of New Orleans, so we could drop a nurse who was anxious to see her husband and kids. She had worked side by side with us, and Ronny had promised her a ride despite the late hour. She was so grateful she cried uncontrollably during the last half mile of the trip on the final approach to her home.
After fueling up south of Baton Rouge, our vehicles eventually separated, each to make their own way home. Barely able to see due to fatigue, Sara and I traded off driving about every 10 minutes. By 6:00 a.m. Thursday morning, we arrived home. We bathed and crawled into bed thinking we would sleep away the day. I awoke about 3 hours later, rested but restless. I began to think about New Orleans again.
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