power’s off; the phones are out; even the cell towers are down. We’re completely cut off. The only way we can talk is by radio, and every emergency service in the city has to share one frequency. You can’t get a word in edgewise, so I just listen in and try to figure out what’s going on—as long as the batteries hold out, that is.”
“What have you heard?”
“Do you know the city?”
Nick shook his head. “We’re from out of town.”
The officer pointed up the road. “You came across the St. Claude Avenue Bridge. It crosses the Industrial Canal—that’s a shipping channel that connects Lake Pontchartrain with the Mississippi. There are neighborhoods all along the canal, and there are concrete levees on both sides to keep the water out.”
“They’re not doing a very good job.”
“Nobody counted on this much water; the levees gave way sometime yesterday. The storm came in about 6:00 a.m. By 9:00 a.m. there was eight feet of water here—ten over there in St. Bernard Parish. The levees on the Seventeenth Street Canal failed too; that’s flooding the rest of the city, from what I hear. I came out here yesterday as soon as the storm passed, but the wind was still pretty rough. I only had a few hours before dark, but I started pulling people out of trees and such.”
“You were the only one out here?”
“Me and a couple of locals.”
Nick paused. “There must be some kind of plan.”
“Look—nobody can call in and nobody can get to the station, so NOPD has no way to coordinate efforts. FEMA, the National Guard—they’ve all got the same problem we do: Communication is out, the roads are blocked, there’s no infrastructure. The only reason I’m here is because my house didn’t flood—not yet, anyway. I just grabbed a boat and headed over—I know this neighborhood like the back of my hand. There are fifty-six hundred homes in the Lower Nine, and the water came up fast—no telling how many are trapped here. There are folks on rooftops, folks in attics—”
Nick looked across the neighborhood at the low-pitched rooftops, their attics vented by only a few narrow rows of slats at each end. It was August in New Orleans, with the temperature over ninety degrees and humidity to match; by afternoon the attics would be little more than slow-cookers.
“How can we help?” Nick asked.
The officer looked over Nick’s shoulder at the empty road behind him. “You boys got a boat?”
Nick turned and looked, too, as if he somehow expected a cabin cruiser to have magically materialized behind him.
“How did you figure you’d help without a boat?”
“I guess we figured you guys would have boats.”
“You don’t say.”
“Where’d you get yours?” Jerry asked.
“NOPD has seven. I grabbed one; the rest are all out.”
“That’s not a lot of boats for a whole city.”
“I hear the Guard has more.”
“Where are they?”
“They can’t get to them—they’re surrounded by water.”
“Imagine that,” Nick said under his breath. “No offense, but . . . didn’t you people ever think about this possibility? I mean, if you live in a bathtub, sooner or later you’re going to get wet.”
Plan ahead ,” the officer said. “Thanks for the advice. Here’s some “advice for you boys: Next time, bring a boat.”
“Where can we get one?”
“Why don’t you ask DMORT? Sounds like they’ve got everything figured out.”
The officer pushed away from the pavement with his oar until the propeller had safe clearance; then he started the motor and raced off into the Lower Nine.
“Hardworking guy,” Jerry said. “FEMA should put him in charge.”
“They better put somebody in charge fast,” Nick said, turning back toward the bridge. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find a boat.”
The St. Claude Avenue Bridge was an old bascule-type drawbridge, counterweighted at the near end to allow the span to swing up and out of the way of passing ships; the lumbering
“What have you heard?”
“Do you know the city?”
Nick shook his head. “We’re from out of town.”
The officer pointed up the road. “You came across the St. Claude Avenue Bridge. It crosses the Industrial Canal—that’s a shipping channel that connects Lake Pontchartrain with the Mississippi. There are neighborhoods all along the canal, and there are concrete levees on both sides to keep the water out.”
“They’re not doing a very good job.”
“Nobody counted on this much water; the levees gave way sometime yesterday. The storm came in about 6:00 a.m. By 9:00 a.m. there was eight feet of water here—ten over there in St. Bernard Parish. The levees on the Seventeenth Street Canal failed too; that’s flooding the rest of the city, from what I hear. I came out here yesterday as soon as the storm passed, but the wind was still pretty rough. I only had a few hours before dark, but I started pulling people out of trees and such.”
“You were the only one out here?”
“Me and a couple of locals.”
Nick paused. “There must be some kind of plan.”
“Look—nobody can call in and nobody can get to the station, so NOPD has no way to coordinate efforts. FEMA, the National Guard—they’ve all got the same problem we do: Communication is out, the roads are blocked, there’s no infrastructure. The only reason I’m here is because my house didn’t flood—not yet, anyway. I just grabbed a boat and headed over—I know this neighborhood like the back of my hand. There are fifty-six hundred homes in the Lower Nine, and the water came up fast—no telling how many are trapped here. There are folks on rooftops, folks in attics—”
Nick looked across the neighborhood at the low-pitched rooftops, their attics vented by only a few narrow rows of slats at each end. It was August in New Orleans, with the temperature over ninety degrees and humidity to match; by afternoon the attics would be little more than slow-cookers.
“How can we help?” Nick asked.
The officer looked over Nick’s shoulder at the empty road behind him. “You boys got a boat?”
Nick turned and looked, too, as if he somehow expected a cabin cruiser to have magically materialized behind him.
“How did you figure you’d help without a boat?”
“I guess we figured you guys would have boats.”
“You don’t say.”
“Where’d you get yours?” Jerry asked.
“NOPD has seven. I grabbed one; the rest are all out.”
“That’s not a lot of boats for a whole city.”
“I hear the Guard has more.”
“Where are they?”
“They can’t get to them—they’re surrounded by water.”
“Imagine that,” Nick said under his breath. “No offense, but . . . didn’t you people ever think about this possibility? I mean, if you live in a bathtub, sooner or later you’re going to get wet.”
Plan ahead ,” the officer said. “Thanks for the advice. Here’s some “advice for you boys: Next time, bring a boat.”
“Where can we get one?”
“Why don’t you ask DMORT? Sounds like they’ve got everything figured out.”
The officer pushed away from the pavement with his oar until the propeller had safe clearance; then he started the motor and raced off into the Lower Nine.
“Hardworking guy,” Jerry said. “FEMA should put him in charge.”
“They better put somebody in charge fast,” Nick said, turning back toward the bridge. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find a boat.”
The St. Claude Avenue Bridge was an old bascule-type drawbridge, counterweighted at the near end to allow the span to swing up and out of the way of passing ships; the lumbering
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