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 - 7 Years Later (Pt. 3)

This is the fourth installment on this topic.

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

The Causeway Boulevard exit of I-10 is just a few miles west of the 17th Street Canal which serves as the western boundary of Orleans Parish and the City of New Orleans.  

The canal is typical of the numerous drainage canals that furnish paths for water away from the low-lying areas of the city into Lake Pontchartrain, via intermediate pumping stations which move the water upwards to the level of its release into the lake.

As one of the primary canals, this one is enclosed on its east and west sides by earthen and concrete levees to contain the excess water being pumped toward the lake and to prevent flooding during major rain events.

The first levee break of which I became aware occurred a few miles north of the I-10 bridge crossing of the canal just a few block south of the canal's connection with the lake.  The levee blew out, or simply gave out, on the east side only, sparing the Jefferson Parish suburbs to the west and releasing elevated waters into northern Orleans Parish and New Orleans.  8' to 12' waters accumulated from the point of release and for miles along the lakefront to the east toward the London Avenue Canal and the Industrial Canal.  The levees of these parallel, north-south canals were failing simultaneously and began dumping their own torrential flows into the city.

Waters from the Gulf of Mexico and Lake Borgne that had surged in with Katrina from the east, along with flood water that had found its way way from the city into the canals, all pushed backwards uncontrollably through the canal breaks, away from the lake and into the city bowl.  During this process of water accumulating from the lake on the north, into uptown on the south, and into downtown, the French Quarter, the 9th Ward, Central City, New Orleans East and St. Bernard Parish, all to the east, access into the city via I-10, and most other entrances had become impassable.

Virtually the entire city was accessible only by boat.

From the hub-bub of emergency vehicles and helicopters at the Causeway exit, in order to reach the next “staging area”, we moved south on Causeway Blvd, rather than east toward the city.  Causeway Boulevard is a major north-south artery in suburban Jefferson Parish and is an extension of the 24-mile Lake Pontchartrain Causeway Bridge connecting the city and its older suburbs to the new, burgeoning developments north of the lake in St. Tammany and Tangipahoa Parishes.

On this day though, the normally bustling roadway was deserted, like the Interstate had been.  However, travel was significantly more treacherous with  downed power lines, power poles, pieces of buildings and other unrecognizable debris requiring heightened senses and extra caution.  Occasionally alternating between the main road and the adjacent frontage road, we were able to weave through the mess and found our way to Airline Drive.  There we turned to the west, fully 180 degrees off of the path that would have taken us into New Orleans when roads are passable.

During this 15 minute trek, none of us was aware of the extent of the flooding and the blocked roads into the city.  Following the instructions from those who appeared to be in authority at the Causeway exit, we continued, but began to question where we would ultimately end up.  We continued west for only a mile or so and came upon a large accumulation of parked vehicles with trailered boats in the roadway in front of Sam’s Club warehouse store.  No one appeared to be in charge and no plan of action was evident, so we followed the pattern of those who had arrived before us  and made a U-turn on Airline Drive.  It was of minor sub-conscious comfort that we were at least pointing back in the direction of the flooded downtown area.

The vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, and their boats lined up in formation, three abreast and 10 or 12 deep on Airline Drive, apparently waiting on instructions, authorization or something.  Then we waited some more.  Some of us wandered around the "staging area" hoping to find some guidance.

Ronny and Sara had roamed over into the Sam's Club parking area.Finding no clear authority or evidence of a specific plan, they returned with two cans of spray paint and no clear instructions on what to do with it.  We would discover later, like much of America, that flooded and damaged homes were marked with a pattern of numbers identifying buildings that had been searched, marking the locations of victims and quantifying the number of those whose remains would have to be gathered. 

(X-code, an iconic graphic applied by search-and-rescue teams in 2005 post-Katrina New Orleans.)

Our cans were placed on the seat of one of our trucks to be rolled and tumbled around the cab for the next few days, never to be opened.

After an hour or so, the movement of other vehicles in groups out of the formation had resulted in our group being at or near the front.  We saw no one giving instructions and received no information, but when the other vehicles moved, we followed.  The sub-conscious relief provided earlier by our change of direction to the east, reversed itself when the beginnings of our new caravan made an immediate U-turn back to the west.  We moved for a mile or two into the late afternoon sun, a group of about 45 boats, destination unknown.  Directed by an unknown and unseen leader, we turned left onto Clearview Parkway, another major north south thoroughfare. Curious, but uninformed about the plan of action, I began to realize that we were coming upon the Huey P. Long Bridge that crosses the Mississippi River.

The bridge was built in the 30's under the auspices of its namesake, a wildly popular governor and United States Senator.  Appealing to the Depression era masses, he had become a serious contender for the U. S. Presidency  proclaiming the Populist standard of "Every Man A King".  Known as The Kingfish, he was killed in his prime by multiple gunshot wounds received in the lobby of the 24-story state capitol building that he had built as a  monument to himself.  The bridge was opened 3 months later.



As a college student in the 1970's, I could visit the capitol building where the errant bullets from the event remained for public viewing, imbedded in the marble walls surrounding the first floor elevators.  One problem is that it is still the subject of debate over coffee or cocktails, whether the bullet or bullets that caused the death of The Kingfish a day or two after the shooting, came from the gun of Dr. Carl Weiss Jr., the alleged assassin, or from the guns of law enforcement wildly firing to subdue him.

To this day, the state remains dotted with engineering accomplishments like the capitol building, constructed for the benefit of, and as a constant reminder to the citizens (and voters) of the state of the love that Huey P. Long bore for them.  The bridge over the Mighty Mississippi, which we were now approaching was an engineering marvel in its day, as the first crossing of the Mississippi River in this area where the river is its widest.  

Upon the long line of trucks and boats squeezing into the narrow entrance ramp of the bridge, it became evident that it was intended to accommodate smaller vehicles during a slower time.  Crossing the bridge, without the usual congestion of high-speed traffic, it was hard to imagine how two lanes of speeding traffic could be squeezed onto the shoulder-less roadway between the railings separating traffic from the river on the outside and the train tressel on the bridge's interior, when the city was fully operational.  We each held our breath as an emergency vehicle screamed us out of our quiet focus and anticipation and flew by us, forcing our steady line to hug the right railing as we cautiously descended the narrow bridge.

Our route did not indicate that we were going into New Orleans, so I began to speculate that our services might be needed more in the outlying parishes toward the mouth of the river.  At the base of the bridge on the west bank (actually south of the river), the state highways could lead us west and south into the lowland swamps and marshes, or to the east into the commercial and suburban sprawl of what is known simply as the West Bank.  Various small suburban towns of Marrero, Gretna, Algiers, Westwego and others had grown together and now carry no readily recognizable boundaries, but comprise as a single unit, the West Bank suburbs of New Orleans.

It was this route, via the West Bank Expressway, that we could find our way into downtown New Orleans.  Unbeknownst to us at that time, we were meandering to and along the only land access route into the city.  The expressway, a great deal of it elevated, carried less debris and no traffic.

We traversed the 8 - 10 mile route and found ourselves at the vacant toll booths at the base of the twin span to be used to re-cross the Mississippi River, the Crescent City connection.  The second span, constructed 20 or 30 years after the original downtown bridge, was originally know simply as The Greater new Orleans Bridge.  After completion of the second span, its moniker was updated and it was permanently christened The Crescent City connection.

Using the west-bound span of the CCC we moved onto the East Bank of the river (yes, I said that correctly-see map above) descending upon the elevated expressway that curves around the southern and western sides of the downtown and central business district of New Orleans.  At the first exit on the city side, parked on the shoulder of the elevated expressway exit, sat a clean, new, white cargo truck with a white-tented extension.  Standing around it, in creased blue jeans and golf shirts next to dark Suburbans and Tahoes were representatives of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA).  One appeared to be operating a video camera overlooking the skyline of the City.

This location, and another similar scene we would encounter the following day on the elevated portion of I-10 above Claiborne Avenue, were the only signs of that agency that we saw  during the first six days after the storm.

At the bottom of the exit ramp, we found ourselves peering directly into the face of the Ernest Morial Convention Center, and then turning left toward downtown, parading somberly along the street separated from the 6 block long convention center only by a wide concrete sidewalk.  In the long blocks spanned by the convention center only 200 or 300 people meandered about.  On any other day they could have been waiting for cabs, catching some quick sunshine or smoking cigarettes on the banquette, as many sidewalks were traditionally called.  Today they could have been gathering for transportation out of the City, or as a part of relief efforts.  The few small groups were hardly noticeable in this usually crowded city.

At the foot of Poydras Street, at the end of Convention Center Boulevard , we converged upon a usually vibrant intersection and Harrah's Casino.  The casino, a billion-dollar mammoth, is the only land-based casino in the state.

Harrah's Casino-New Orleans

It was then, among the 15 gaming licenses available in the state, the only exception to the legislative wisdom decreeing that citizens and voters are safe from casinos only if they are contained in floating riverboats.  In this rich cultural melting pot,  decadence and religion have historically flourished side by side.

Isle of Capri Casino - Lake Charles

In traditions embracing Voodoo, historic red light districts, Bourbon Street strip clubs, European architecture, religious monuments and cathedrals, the contradiction was invisible and the exception seemed justified.

Our caravan came to an abrupt halt behind a line of similar truck-vehicle combinations that squirmed and disappeared into the concrete and glass canyon between The W and Windsor Court Hotels on one side and Harrah's on the other.  By walking around the casino and through the canyon, we confirmed that the snaking line of boats wrapped entirely around Harrah's, from Poydras, down South Peters, then on Canal toward the River and then back toward the intersection where our folks rested.

World Trade Center & Harrah's

We found fellow rescuers from other groups perched at the front of the line, primed and ready to go.  Occasionally glancing skyward toward the dangling high voltage lines ripped from their standards, they anxiously awaited their instructions and information while milling around the area between the casino and the New Orleans International Trade Mart, now known as the World Trade Center.

Plaza  Tower

I began to feel completely my 50 year old age, realizing that the gleaming local icons of my youth, that I remembered as vibrant new symbols of progress, were mostly re-named.   This old “Trade Mart”, along with the 33 level Plaza Tower on the edge of downtown, were the first two legitimate skyscrapers built in New Orleans in the late 60’s after an extended period during which the 24-story Hibernia Bank building held the position as tallest in the city.  It occurred to me that the names of these once gleaming, state of the art towers were being changed, or updated, partly to give the impression that they were still cutting edge.  Lacking new buildings, new names would have to do.

“Hurry up and wait” was again the theme.  Although we had only hit the road from Sulphur 4 - 5 hours earlier, it seemed like days.  Now past 5:00 o’clock p.m., on Tuesday, the day after Katrina hit, we began anticipating that we would begin at dusk and continue conducting searches throughout during the night. 

Confined to their wood-frame, island fortresses in this sea of familiar lake water mixed with gasoline, sewerage, garbage, animal feces and anything else previously located below the flood waters, we did not expect that those as yet unclaimed would want to cancel rescue efforts at dark and wait until morning to begin again.  

Around 6:00 o’clock p.m., we had worked our way around the casino to the point that we were ready to be deployed as a group to whatever assigned location awaited us.

During our wait, we exchanged stories and personal histories with our fellow rescuers and heard from locals and other boaters next to whom we had been thrown randomly by fate, timing and circumstance.  The most vivid of these    real life short stories was the one told by a Harrah’s employee who crossed our path while operating a forklift on Poydras Street.  Apparently engaged in wanting to bring us up to speed, he was very matter-of-fact when he said, “A lot of people who went out last night came back really messed up”.  However, obviously from colorful New Orleans, the story teller used a more vivid phrase ingrained in the  vernacular of even the youngest of city natives and synonymous with “messed up”.

Before I could mentally process what bizarre and grotesque kind of physical harm could have befallen our fellow volunteers, he detailed stories of boats running over dead bodies in the water and similar grisly events.  The realization at that moment, that his reference had been to psychological and not physical injuries provided no comfort, but rather heightened our growing anxiousness.

During the drive into the city, Sara and I had navigated our group from the lead vehicle.  We pondered the unknown severity of the situation and speculated about what we might see in the still uncharted devastation left in Katrina’s wake.  We were as uncertain of what we were getting into as we were determined to do it.

Ignorance is bliss.

We have encouraged each other to always be, together, mildly adventurous and open-minded.  We are fortunate to have shared a variety of  experiences together that we might not have otherwise ventured into alone.  We did not speak of it, but on this day, we were both becoming increasingly aware that we had never done before, anything like that which we were about to do.

         TO BE CONTINUED