For the last week, the world has looked out at the Gulf of Mexico from Venice, Louisiana, about the farthest downriver you can comfortably hold a media circus, and its focus has been split between Seafood City on the eastern side of the river's mouth and the Vacation Coast farther east.
"It hasn't crossed over to the west side," people have been telling each other, on the telephone, in the newspaper, on TV. As if, somehow, it might simply change its mind, go foul someone else's life.
Everyone, the media, the pols, Louisianians ourselves, have kept our eyes on the northeast quadrant, as if this were the usual sort of storm.
Between the lowest reaches of the Mississippi River and Bayou Lafourche to the west lies the rich and complex estuary known as Barataria Basin, a system of large freshwater outflow lakes, as well as tidally affected mixed marshes, sheltered from the seas strongest movements by a chain of barrier islands. A vast kaleidoscope of aquatic environments, the region has been noted for centuries as Poseidon's larder and a great place to hang out. Or hide out.
Some of the earliest non-native residents of the region were Filipinos who jumped Spanish ships and settled in the marshes. In the early 19th century, Jean Lafitte and his brother Pierre were having an increasingly hard time concealing from authorities in New Orleans the income from their privateering operations, so they moved into Barataria Bay and were declared enemies of the state--until they saved the state's bacon in the War of 1812.
People in the area still make big bucks on the waters, though through more legitimate methods now. Like my friend, who I'll call Buddy.
Buddy was saying it, too, when I talked with him Thursday. "The oil isn't west of the river, thank god," he replied when I asked how it was going. He knows better, but, like everyone else, he seems to take comfort in the idea that, somehow, this is going to get stopped.
Buddy's a country boy, through and through. He lives in the upper reaches of Barataria Bay, and makes his living hustling seafood from the docks and processing houses of lower Jefferson and Plaqemines Parishes to retailers and restaurants in the city.
Despite the western waters still being open for commercial and charter boats (except shrimp), the catch is drying up.
Buddy says there's catch out there, but boats aren't running. "Half the captains are going for the oil work training and certification. They know they probably won't get the call, but they're hoping for a chance for work. It's still tough living if you get in. You've got to pay your deckhands and insurance and fuel.
"The lack of boats on the water is making it really tough to get the product that's out there, and prices are up every day. Shrimp up seventy-five cents yesterday. Oysters up a dollar a gallon. I just sold my last gallon and I probably won't see more before Monday."
The oyster beds west of the river are, for now, still open, but harvesters are scarce as people scramble for cleanup work. "We've got some oystermen coming over from Breton Sound, now that they're closed, so hopefully we'll see some more product soon. There's just so much unknown right now."
The western crab catch has been hard hit, says Buddy. "It was a really thin winter, what with the cold weather. Then, about mid-April, they started really hauling 'em in. It looked like it was going to be a good season, after all. The boats were working. The girls were back in the picking houses. Then all this. . .
"Yesterday, twenty-eight pounds of crab came in to my usual dock. Twenty-eight pounds."
Buddy doesn't know what's going to happen to his business now. With the western edge of the spill reaching around the river and closing like a fist around Barataria Bay, he's not going to be able to stay open much longer.
His voice breaks as he ponders the future. "I've spent years building up this business to give to my kids. I've got one son working with me. Now, it looks like we'll have to find something else."
"But, hey, I can handle it," he says, brightening. "I've done all kinds of work, run restaurants, lawn and landscape. I know I can find something else." Then, he gets somber once more. "Some of these folks, though, they can't. They're fishermen and dockmen and pickers. That's all they've done for generations. They never trained for anything else because they never thought they'd have to. They're going to need a lot of help down here."
They are, indeed.
Usually, at this point, I post some links to organizations coordinating volunteers for the cleanup and companies hiring. Today, you know I'm gonna beat that food drum once more.
This past week, charities distributed immediate aid to hard-pressed fishermen and their families in South Louisiana, including boxes of non-perishable food from Second Harvest of New Orleans and Greater Acadiana. Yesterday, they delivered more. And the real closings and displacements have yet to begin in lower Jefferson and Lafourche. These families will be hard-hit, and won't get better for a long time to come.
While donations to our local food bank are more than welcome (just tell 'em "that guy that writes on that Daily Kos" sent you), your own local food pantries and feeding centers are also stretched thin right now. Today, you can help them out without even leaving your house.
The National Association of Letter Carriers (your friendly postal pals) is coming to your house, today, to pick up your donations of non-perishables for Feeding America/Second Harvest/NALC's annual food drive. Just bag up the chow, put it by the mailbox and presto, you've offered hope and sustenance to a family in need. Simple, huh?
So get to it, before the mail gets here.
(I know I said I wouldn't bug you about the food drive again. I lied. Move them cans. And don't forget Nashville.)