Katrina and the Cajun Navy (7 yrs later) - Pt. 8

This is the ninth installment on this topic.

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

1010 Lake Forest Blvd
(7 years post-Katrina)

Returning from the stairwell filled with mostly elderly folks, I pushed through the chest-deep water back to the closest boat, now positioned in the corner of the meeting room at the base of the stairwell.  Though only a few feet from the base of the steps, no-one could access the boat without submitting themselves and their senses to the chill of the murky waters or by being carried.  As my thought process moved from the initial encounter with the residents, into planning logistics, my eye caught movement from a room to the left, adjacent to the meeting area in which we were now "staging" removal of the patient souls in the stairway.

To my surprise, I saw what clearly appeared to be a young family. Dad in chest deep water, maybe in his early 30's, mom a few inches shorter, each carrying a small child aged maybe 6 and 8.  They plowed through the water as a unit moving toward the meeting room, and from their expression, decidedly toward the first boat.  My first reaction, considering those in line positioned in the stairwell to wait their turns, was that these youngsters were not following  the certain protocol I had already formulated in my mind.  They were not lending proper respect to the old folks organized in proper fashion as if they had each drawn numbers to be serviced in order and with appropriate decorum.  This young family was "cutting".  In this makeshift rescue by untrained organizers, for a moment, it kinda pissed me off.

In the wisdom of the moment it struck me that, this young family was as anxious to remove itself from this indefinite aquatic isolation as were those in the stairway.  It did not appear that either group was aware of the others.  Even if they had been, my experiences later in the day would fortify the notion that among those ready to leave, "first come first served" would, in many cases be the primary protocol.  For efficiency, the young family was placed into the first boat and pushed away toward the exit allowing the next small craft to drift into place.

With the first four rescued and a few more aluminum craft drifting in to begin moving those in line, Sara ascended the first of many stairways in the building to begin her floor-by-floor “evaluation”.  Within minutes, many of the residents knew Sara's name and she knew theirs.  Instant friends.  Once the situation was assessed, I left the transport to others and joined Sara inside the building.  With my hiking boots filled with water, and my clothes saturated and dripping, I accompanied Sara up into this unexplored territory to learn the specifics of what we would be facing.

She had determined that there were no less than 10 residents at least partially confined to wheelchairs, and half as many recent surgery patients still on the mend.  Many of those who were ambulatory were weak or impaired with bad knees, legs, backs and the like, although there were a few younger families with preschool children.  We discovered that the living situations for each resident were uncomfortable but not yet intolerable.  The building housed its occupants in comfortable though not extravagant apartments.  Without running water or electricity for nearly three days, refrigerators could have held remnants of bottled water on hand before the storm.  Freezers sparingly opened and food cabinets could still hold essentials for their owners' sustenance.

                  

We heard of a group of headstrong male residents who had moved to the roof and were bonded in the brotherhood of a permanent encampment.  As the stories went, they were staying, come hell or .... well they were staying.  We did not immediately investigate stories of them lighting campfires and refusing to leave as there was adequate need within the confines of the enclosed floors.  There were 10 or so others who declared their decision to stay, but all others were ready to do what was needed to get into a boat.  They needed no knowledge of their destination.

Occasionally, during the constant flow of boats from this location and many others in the area, I would periodically return to the "landing" to monitor the situation and coordinate, if necessary with the retrieval of residents.  "In America" anyone would expect resources and personnel to be available with coordination of efforts to transform the chaos of a natural disaster into an organized and fluid recovery.  Not yet!  As the day progressed, it became painfully obvious that the “seamless” coordination of rescue and relief operations promised by FEMA had not yet materialized.

Those brought to the road by boat were dropped in the blazing sun, on the smoldering asphalt shoulder of the highway to wait for land transport.  Their wait was excruciatingly long, but they had no choice but to remain patient, as they had nowhere else to go.  All they could do was sit, without water, without food, without their animal companions and without shelter.

Transport vehicles appeared to wander into the area without schedule or plan.  Rather than "first come first served" it became more "survival of the fittest" as many of the weaker and less agile would be brushed aside by those who best positioned themselves to enter whatever kind of wheeled transport might arrive.  Those unable to gain entry on one wagon,would wait for the next carrier to unpredictably come by.  Again, I was aggravated that this did not fit the mold of my upbringing.  However, we were forced to accept that this discourteous unfairness was just another layer of skin on this big onion that we were not equipped to deal with.
Officers and some kind citizens attempted to care for the frail and injured, and to provide priority access for those not strong enough to fend for themselves. All in all it was a situation under limited control with little organization. 

As the day wore on with the prolonged intense heat and crowds on the roadside growing, it began to eat at some of us that many folks were not feeling “rescued”.  Their placement on the highway to bake in the sun for hours, to await transport, occasionally by bus, but also by U-haul truck, open troop carrier or dump truck, was not what we envisioned or what they deserved after the ordeal they had already been through.  We had no knowledge or control over their destinations.  Our job was to get them out of the water.  We had no information, authority or input beyond that.

The high-rise residents who were able, filed out of their 168 apartments.  They ventured one-by-one, down the dark stairwells to the dock-less boat mooring.  When their turns came, they would submit to partial submersion in the increasingly acrid waters before entering one of the tin can units of the rescue flotilla.  For the entire day, our clothes saturated and skin wrinkled, we stood chest deep in water assisting each passenger. 

Those who did not need to be lifted into the boat were directed to step onto the underwater chair positioned next to it.  This provided us with assistance in getting each of them above the 4-foot water level and the additional foot and a half over the edge of the boat.  Mickey Monceaux, an 11-year charter employee of R&R, assisting those who could not do so themselves, lifted more that a couple of tons of passengers into boats during the course of the day.

Between boatloads, we would clomp up and down the stairwells, boots weighted with water, sweeping the building for those remaining.  In the later hours, those remaining presented the most challenges.  This was not due to their demeanor, as they were cooperative, kind and appreciative.  These has limitations that prevented them from crowding into the stairwells to await their turns in line for debarkation.  Despite impediments, the ones who couldn't make it to the submerged dining area to the bouncing watercraft, were nevertheless ready to go.  They expected to leave like everyone else, and they expected to do it today  Unfortunately, the circumstances evolved to the point that some would have to wait through the night... and  perhaps beyond that.

A late afternoon survey revealed four residents in wheelchairs who could not walk down the stairs, even with assistance.  One of those, a charming and pleasant lady named Connie, much younger than most of the other residents, had a serious brittle bone disease.  She was encouraging, but made it amply clear that we would risk seriously injuring her if she had to leave her electric wheelchair.  It occurred to me that housing wheelchair bound residents in a high-rise with no generator backup for elevators showed little forethought or no concern.

We considered trying to carry her from her chair down the many flights of stairs, but in our fatigued and saturated state, we risked injury to her and to ourselves trying to negotiate down the wet, slippery stairs.  We considered moving her down the 6 or 8 flights in her wheelchair, but I had discovered earlier that day how bulky, unwieldy and extremely heavy these electric wheelchairs are.  It had taken four of us to move each of three other electric wheelchairs without occupants earlier in the day.  Connie was scared to go and she was scared to stay.  Although the sun was still shining, we had no options.

In one of the hallways, on a mid-level floor, lay a gentleman in his 60's or older, on his back, either sleeping or unconscious.  I learned later that he had unfailingly assisted Sara throughout the day in locating and organizing residents. Now at 5:00 p.m., he was passed out in a hallway.  “Diabetic coma” we were told by a gentleman who we guessed was a relative or a close friend.

In an apartment, we found two residents recovering from recent surgeries.  With their spouses, they were packed and waiting in anticipation at the doors of their apartments as if expecting a taxi to arrive to drive them to the airport.

The boat returned with the news that there was no insulin for our diabetic friend, no other medical resources and no further land transport that afternoon.

Those remaining had physical impairments of some kind, limiting their mobility at very least. Earlier, I had asked each of them if they wished to risk injury by being moved with our limited resources, and each had said yes.  As the daylight was waning I returned to inform each of them that we could not take them that day.

I could only relate this information to our unconscious diabetic friend through his nephew who would stay to tend to him through the night without medication.  We lifted that gentleman off the floor and into his wheelchair and I mustered some weak words of encouragement for his nephew.  I felt helpless and guilty that I was leaving them for the night.  The only consolation was that they were better off here in familiar shelter than left on the roadside to fen for themselves.

We plodded wearily down from the upper floors, one fight at a time, checking each level for residents.  Almost desperately, one of the long-married couples called to me as I walked away.  Seated in their living room, dressed and prepared to leave, they let me know they would be ready at daybreak.  I nodded and assured them that they would not be forgotten.

Connie, the lady with the brittle bone disease and confined to her wheelchair, sat at her spot by the window and looked toward the city's skyline over the flood waters.  As everyone seemed to be doing mentally, she struggled openly to comprehend it when I told her the entire city looked like the view out of her window.  I emphasized that no one knew when it was going away.  On her shoulder sat a parakeet she referred to as “her life”.


Although Connie was usually surrounded in this building by hundreds of other residents, she was essentially confined to her chair and to this space due to her condition.  This bird represented something akin to family to her.  Now, it was only her and her parakeet, being left to stare out the window at the sky, the moon and the water while contemplating what life held for her next.  She beseeched me to promise that I would return in the morning.

Many of these occupants were at times in their lives that they had little more than themselves and the possessions contained in the confines of their living quarters.  Their lobby, meeting room and cafeteria had by this time been under water for three days and would be for an indeterminate time to come.  The parking lot, before Katrina, was the convenient welcoming area for the vehicles of family and friends who might visit, and for medical or emergency vehicles when needed.  Now it too was cut off by the same darkening liquid that would seem to grow darker and thicker during the night.

Spirits buoyed by the arrival of boats this morning were now being replaced by tentative patience.  These old souls, now stranded for three days feared that no-one would ever return if the opportunity today was missed.

Encouraged by information that Ronny had befriended a group of volunteers with fire-rescue and EMT experience as well as equipment, I assured the residents that they could expect a level of safety in their removal tomorrow that we could not have provided them today.

Moving into the sunlight out of the bowels of the last dark stairway, I thought for a moment that we had could make one or two more loads.  Just as fleetingly, my  mind flashed to images of the wet stairs, the heavy wheelchairs, the impaired residents and the turmoil at the roadside throughout the day.  I accepted that we had done all that we could that day, and that those left in their familiar surroundings above would be in the best place until reinforcements arrived in the morning.  Maybe by then, the area-wide strategic operation might be organized enough to actually do something with these less fortunate ones who needed care for their impairments.

My 50-year old body, pushed to its limits, did not feel pain or fatigue, presumably thanks to my adrenaline-diluted blood.  Little in my usually mundane daily schedule could compare with my experiences of the last day and a half.  It seemed like weeks since this had started.  The isolation and poor conditions were unlike anything I had encountered before.  The amount of physical effort and mental stress had been at levels ten or a hundred fold what I normally dealt with.  At the same time, this experience was awakening senses long unused and was in many ways invigorating. 

We floated slowly and carefully, retracing our flooded path back to the roadside dock.  The waters and the day itself seemed refreshingly serene as the late afternoon sky turned orange and reflected off of the waters around us.  Though it seemed like the end of the day was approaching, I knew nothing of the adventures we would face in its remaining few hours.

To be continued

Katrina and The Cajun Navy - Seven Years Later (Pt.7)

This is the eighth installment on this topic.

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

Parallel to The Chef, approximately one mile to the north is I-10 and equally as far north of that is Hayne Boulevard running along the Pontchartrain lakefront.  These east-west thoroughfares are tied together by 4-6 primary roadways running roughly north and south.  Since those are approximately equidistant from each other between our starting point and the I-610 connection to St. Bernard Parish on the far east end near the NASA plant, these roads would be our staging areas.

Each of them was situated closely enough to the high water that the elevation of Hwy 90 provided nearly perfect boat launches into the flooding. Our group's vessels were dispersed at four of these launch locations.  Ours in particular set up operations at Read Blvd.

Because we could launch only one rig at at time, many were afloat and gone before anyone appeared with instructions or guidance.  Impatiently and hurriedly, they sped off, hopefully to return with people and information.  All boats could steer only north initially.  We assumed there would be some organization to their action once they began hitting the cross streets of the neighborhoods where they might fan out for full coverage of the area.  The water in the roadways provided ample clearance for the propellers almost immediately after entry.  After each boat had barely left the "dock", their motors were opened full throttle, sending wakes into the small front yards and walls of the closely-spaced homes.

Once the last boat had set off, it seemed the others began returning almost immediately, loaded with weary faces. Some appeared relieved, some concerned. Some had minor injuries and some had different levels of disabilities. Some were reluctant to show relief just yet, as they seemed to know this was only one short leg of a much longer ordeal that had begun with the clouds moving in before the wind and water.  Where, when or how it would end remained to be seen.

Our guys were gone again as soon as unloading was complete.








It did not seem that we had just begun preparing for this journey only about 24 hours before.  We were in a new place and a different time.  It had taken ages, it seemed, to get there.  We had hit brick walls and had stopped and started so many times that no one was concerned with details or plans when the crews finally got into the water and began shoving off.  Not much was discussed about what would happen next.

The arriving passengers were impatient as well, to have their chance to step out of each small dinghy and to walk on dry ground.  Their exits were prompt.  Except for a few errant slips, all who could disembark themselves did so quickly and without incident.  Those who were sick, infirm, elderly or otherwise impaired would be helped or lifted carefully and gently by the biggest and burliest of our guys.  Upon exiting, many engaged in idle chatter and some exchanged greetings and smiles.  Each would have stories of the last few days and would begin sharing them with each other.

During the cooling breeze of the boat ride and the excitement of the rescue, most seemed to not yet notice the rapidly elevating temperature that was now approaching 90 degrees.  It was barely mid-morning.  Losing their sea legs, they began to survey the scene.  Some curious, some bewildered, none could find any immediate indication or guidance as to what would happen next.  Like gathering at a corner stop for a city bus with no impending arrival time, the not-yet-fully-rescued strangers drifted up to the shoulder of the highway.  No shade, no water.  Optional seating was provided by only the hot asphalt shoulder or the grassy sloping ground adjacent to The Chef.

Having spent over two days without electricity, running water or air-conditioning in the sweltering New Orleans heat, it is likely that some hoped for, if not expected, air-conditioned buses and bottled water to greet them.  After all, they were being rescued, weren't they?  Maybe later.

With one of the first groups brought in, was a slender lady, past middle age but with straight blonde hair styled like a much younger woman.  She was happy to be on dry ground but obviously distraught.  Unlike others, she did not seem so excited about being safe or out of whatever situation she had left.  She told her personal tale of having weathered the storm with her sister.  From her tone, it was clear it was not just any sister, if there can be such a thing.  This was her lifelong friend, confidante and soul mate.  I would guess they were inseparable and could have wished for no better companions than each other for fighting a hurricane.  At least they were in their home, with each other.  As the story unfolded, it became clear that she had not only lost track of her sister, but she had lost her completely.  As she sobbed uncontrollably, she told us that her sister had been dragged from her very grasp by raging wind and waters and that she had no doubt died.

Happy that our charge had escaped the torrent and that she was now safe, those who could hear her slowed or stopped their frenetic motion to listen and to share her loss.  It was again one of those moments in which the insulation of distance and relationship that shielded us from emotion had crumbled, exposing each of us to this real, very personal circumstance.  In these fleeting moments, that  we would experience repeatedly during the next few days, our dispassionate rescue job was altered and snapped into a sudden surge of emotion and human connection.  Those who heard her were happy she was now safe and heartbroken for her loss.

The lady regained her composure and disappeared into the crowd to melt in the sweltering sun at the corner and to await the next chapter of her fate with a heavy heart.  As the scores, and then hundreds of bedraggled were deposited onto the concrete bank of the new lakefront, they joined the crowd with the others, clueless about what lay before them.  Within the hour of the grief-stricken sister arriving, a joyous scream rose up from the crowd in which she had become invisible.  Everyone within the sound of her jubilation celebrated in some fashion, the arrival and heartfelt embrace of the first sister with the second who was very much alive.

As the folks passed us to grow into the masses on the corner we were able to piece together their stories and form some idea of the circumstances and conditions they had left, and that we would face going in.  Our travelers were coming from rooftops and from attics of homes soaked and consumed by 6-8 feet of water by this third day.  Their stories confirmed what we had gathered in bits and pieces from authorities.  The water in the mile from The Chef to I-10 progressed from inches to over 6 feet.  Beyond that its depth increased to as much as 12 feet approaching the lakefront.

                                        

The residential neighborhoods at the north and the south were interrupted in the middle by a light commercial corridor along I-10.  The once grand Lake Forest Plaza Mall west of Read and south of the interstate was a showcase in its day, 30+ years before.  Despite its size it contained no residences and no victims as far as we knew.  However, adjacent to it was Methodist Hospital, Metropolitan Hospital, and various apartment complexes and hotels.  On the east side of Read, the commercial development did not run as deep.  Before transitioning again into suburban developments, the convenience stores, gas stations and hotels on the east side of Read stood as the front line before a high rise assisted living facility on which some of us would soon focus.

At first, we heard only stories from the Metropolitan Hospital.  The information that trickled down to us indicated that it was in fact a hospice.  It held patients on their final journey in this world, who had opted to forego medical treatment and life-sustaining care.  The word from that building was that a preacher or a priest remained, and that he refused to leave these dying patients.  He had food and water and the number in his care was not clear.  He asked for nothing and would accept nothing, wanting us to use our resources for others.  He offered us gasoline if we needed it.  Unless he was running generators, he certainly would not need it.  Every car in the parking lot was completely submerged by flood waters.  Because it seemed to be a situation under control, we bypassed the hospice for the rest of the day, tending to others more in need of our services.

5 years post Katrina
(AP/Boston Globe)

The acknowledged organizer, director and head honcho of our group was Ronny Lovett, the owner of R & R Construction.  That company employed most of our rescuers.  However, by her nature, to which Ronny fully and voluntarily  deferred at times, the de facto managing director, drill sergeant and organizer extraordinaire was Sara.

Sara had been instrumental in putting Ronny in business 10 years earlier.  She was the company's CPA and was Ronny's long-time friend and adviser.   Small in stature, her position on anything was always crystal clear and her decisions always certain.  Regardless of their position on those decisions, no one considered questioning her here as her decisiveness and casual assumption of authority lulled all into a comfortable sense of security.  Outside of this situation, on a normal day, questioning her still required preparation, fortitude and stubbornness whether for debate or true conflict.  Any discussion would almost certainly end upon her subtly convincing her opponent that they had won her over...to her side.  She was dictatorial through her gifts of persuasion and never abused her influence.  When she adopted a cause, the troops rallied.





Her cause on this day would become a 15-floor assisted living facility jutting into the sky out of a concrete parking lot.  Its location was about a block east of Read, a block south of I-10 and behind the half submerged branch of the New Orleans Public Library.

Sara first engaged me to assist her in “evaluating the situation” at this high rise facility.  At the time, it was not clear just what it was or who was in it.  After 12 years of marriage, I knew that Sara asking me to help her evaluate the situation meant that I was to shadow her and follow her instructions as she evaluated the situation.  She would plan a strategy within minutes of her arrival.

Our flat bottom metal marsh boat drifted carefully up to the edge of the parking lot of the non-descript pale building.  The structure, surrounded by the expansive lot and then by streets, residences and low-slung stores in the distance, had nothing to block its view.  From the road, we could see into the bottom floor that was under four or more feet of water.  At first, there seemed to be a clear shot across the lot to the entrance of the building.  On second glance, it was clear that it would require a careful approach to avoid the vehicles and other unknown obstacles hidden just beneath the darkened surface of the water.


We idled in cautiously into an area of sights and sounds of life emanating from the many screened windows on higher levels of the concrete box.  In direct view, on the bottom floor, was an opening that appeared to have housed a large plate glass opening, possibly a door 10 -12 feet wide.  To attempt to get a handle on the location and size of the population inside, we first meandered slowly around the entire base of the building following the sounds of the variety of voices coming from within.  Greeted by a host of excited and happy welcomes from many of the fifteen floors, it became obvious that there were more than a few people inside.  We returned to the large opening to determine if that space would provide a viable entryway.

Floating slowly, and a bit apprehensively past the cased gateway into the the shadows of the interior, the height of the ground level room was diminished by more than half by the the elevated liquid floor.  We found ourselves inside some sort of meeting room or dining area with little clearance between the tops of our heads and the sheet rock ceiling.  To the left, the top of an electric organ was exposed.  Bibles and pamphlets floated amidst debris and the occasional dead bird or rodent.  Tables and chairs were barely visible beneath the surface of the water which rippled ever so slightly from beneath the gentle drift of the boat.

At the rear and in the center of the room, in an alcove past an open door, an area reserved for religious worship was visible.  A group of candles sat on a small altar protruding just above the water line.  On the wall was a familiar picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.  As a lifelong Catholic I recognized this framed iconic image from my youth.  Familiarity with it was reinforced and forever etched into my mind by the five years I spent in the city under the tutelage of the Brothers of the Sacred Heart (Sacre' Couer) as an 8th grader at St. Aloysius High School and then four more at Brother Martin High between 1969 and 1973.

Brother Martin High (1969-present)

St. Aloysius (1869-1969)

In the far back corner of the dining area, to the right of our path from the sunlit exterior entrance stood a blank metal door.  Once opened, indirect light from our point of entry provided minimal illumination into the bottom of a dark, bare concrete stairwell landing.  From our perspective as passengers in the flat-bottom aluminum boat, the sight of three bare concrete walls  inside the stairwell indicated that it came down from the second story behind the wall to our right.  Any signs of life, or of the pathway to the upper floors would come only after entry into the stairwell followed by an immediate 180 degree turn to the right.  The entire landing was under 3-4 feet of water indicating that the lower five or six stairs would also be submerged. 

From above that dank floodline which we could now only imagine, and before any faces were seen, came the very real sounds of human activity and the animated voices of people jostling for positions.  The dark water, we would soon determine, acted as a weak and temporary force field restraining the mass of people anxiously waiting for transport.  In the meantime they politely, but unflinchingly held the positions they had established on the inclined concourse.  Had a larger craft been positioned at the landing, their anxiousness would likely have fueled a more forceful crush of bodies into the small portal to their rescue.  With only the sounds of the first small dinghy invisibly clanging into the walls of the dining room and into the door casing of the stairwell, the anxious residents restrained their instincts and maintained a semblance of impatient decorum.

To discover and actually view the reality of what we were presuming based upon sounds and circumstance required some of us to exit the boat and move without its protections into the stair well aperture.  Leaving only our pilot afloat we lowered our feet, and then our legs into the uncertainty of the stained water until they disappeared from sight.  As we descended deeper beneath the surface we were each briefly struck by the unexpected cool snap of the water as it enveloped our stomachs and lower backs.

Using our feet as if they were red-tipped canes, we each felt about negotiating around objects large and small, some fixed and others bouncing randomly about.  With the guarded anticipation of walking along the muddy bottom of a backwoods pond or a cypress swamp, we slid slowly along toward the single step up into the stairwell, hoping not to encounter any of the wild imaginings then fleeting through our brains.

Then (1972)

Of more realistic concern should have been the risk of injury from some yet hidden source revealed only upon the infliction of pain.  Even a minor injury could be devastating, if not life threatening, considering our remote location and lack of facilities.  The water was still cool and only a short time had passed since its intrusion into the habitat of the landlubbers.  It had not yet occurred to us that it was any more dangerous in these waters than it was in the lake waters in which we would dip ourselves and our fishing lines in the 60's in between "No Swimming" notices caused by elevated bacteria levels. (See Save Our Lake.org)

Now

Now

As we successfully fumbled onto the landing we turned and peered up into the rectangular tube ascending to the dim light trickling downward from the second floor entry door propped open against the interior wall.  In between that door and the motley rescuers were 40 or more faces, some smiling, some fearful, but all anxious.  To this day, my recalled first impression was of images of elderly, desperate prisoners peering from the confines of trains during WWII not knowing if they were being rescued or being left to their own devices to escape an impossible plight.

                                                     
                   



Of course, that impression is grossly exaggerated, but in the dark, humid confines of the stairway filled with forlorn and beleaguered citizens stacked sardine-style shoulder to shoulder between cold concrete walls, pushing forward, both physically and mentally towards potential freedom, that initial impression remains in my brain's RAM. 
       

   To Be Continued