I grew up in Jackson, Mississippi and spent a good bit of time in New Orleans through the years but this trip was much different. For one thing, I was seeing the city from the river and it seemed distant and a little sad. Unfamiliar, I think because of my perspective from the water; a little sad because eight months earlier it experienced the ravages of a lady named Katrina. The
city was silent and absent of the revelers that were always there, day or night, and even though it was always somewhat disheveled now it was in disrepair. If you just looked at city the damage was not that evident but when you looked at individual structures the strength of the August Lady was easily remembered.
It didn't take long for the sentiments of the storm to subside when that all too familiar sound of the starboard engine, attempting to gulp the few last ounces of fuel from the bottom of its tank, brought me back to our own sobering plight. We were running out of fuel again with the only marine gasoline in the city more than 12 miles or so away. I knew we could go several miles on the port engine but didn't know just how far. We throttled back to a idle and made our way through the ship yards, passed Canal Street, the French Quarter and south to the Inner Harbor Industrial Canal. The Industrial Canal connects the Mississippi River to Lake Pontchartrain and cuts the trip from Louisiana to Mississippi by about one half.
It had been a long day on the river and we were hoping to get locked through the canal quickly because there were several draw bridges and railroad bridge to clear before we could get into the lake. There was tow being lowered when we arrived at the entrance to the lock and a tow waiting in the canal to be raised into the Mississippi. I eased Detour over to a old bridge abutment and Mickey held on and made us secure so we could kill the port engine and help preserve the precious little fuel we had left in our tanks. I can't remember how long it took but I do recall how low the sun was getting on the horizon. As the tow moved slowly out of the lock, I cranked the only running engine we now had and proceeded into the lock.
The lock at the Inner Harbor Industrial Canal was a little different than other locks on the rivers north. It had no floating bollards the lock attendant would simply throw a line down, fore and aft, and you would hold the line, taking up slack or letting it out (as was the case with us) as the need arose. Things were going smoothly when we got our first dose of "Katrina Syndrome" from the lock attendant. Definition: "Katrina Syndrome" a psychological license to blame anything, everything and anybody on the hurricane. The syndrome struck us several times and while we became thoroughly "pissed" at the attitudes we begin to understand, as time went on and we lived a short while in a world of people who's lives were unkindly rearranged by the ravages of nature. Case in point, I looked up and asked the lock attendant how far the New Orleans city marina was from here. He didn't hesitate to respond but the response was a little different than I expected, "do you have a chart... if you don't you don't need to be in a boat". Well I had a chart and I knew about how far but I figured a local might be able to give me an estimate of how long it would take us to get there so I might have a better idea of my fuel usage. Either "Katrina Syndrome" or a really unhappy lock attendant.
We moved carefully out of the lock and into the canal and my perception of the attendant's reply begin to become more understandable. The canal cuts a path through a portion of the ninth ward; the area so badly flooded in the aftermath of the hurricane. This industrial section was totally empty of humanity except for the occasional face we would see looking out from behind a deserted warehouse or washed out building or moving quietly along looking any object that might provide a means of income or maybe protection. I'm not sure I had ever experienced anything like this before; it was like those newsreels you see of a country in war where everything is pretty much destroyed and people are making the best out of survival.
The inner harbor canal is topped by several lift and stationary bridges that must be traversed when making your way to the lake. The St. Claude bridge was opening when we pulled out of the lock; I'm sure they heard us on the radio. We were fortunate to find the Claiborne Ave. bridge high enough for us to get under and the Florida Ave./Southern Railroad bridge opened on our channel 13 call. The Chef Mentour Blvd. bridge and the US 90 bridge are both very high and no problem for Detour. (I'm sure no one one would attempt to use this blog as a navigation guide and that's good because in writing from memory I may be taking liberties with the accuracy of the content.) We could see our final obstruction to our freedom into Lake Pontchartrain, the Sea Brook Railroad lift bridge and the Sea Brook highway bridge, also high enough to not cause a problem.
I knew from the cruise guide that the bridge master monitors channel 16. I hailed in my most captain-like tone and.. no reply. I think I may have used the wrong pronunciation and irritated the bridge master... or another "syndrome" issue?? We slowed to a halt and waited; no response. A train was moving across the bridge and we felt sure the bridge would open when it cleared. Not... when I called the bridge master, and after minutes of silence we received a response, another train was following the one on the bridge and we would have to wait. I asked if we could tie to a empty barge close to the bridge and save fuel; long radio silence followed by nothing. Mickey tied us to the barge and we waited for the bridge to open and darkness.
Our delay at the L and N railroad bridge was lengthy and when we finally cleared and slowly glided into Lake Pontchartrain we were beat mentally as well as physically and both had become seriously infected with a bad case of the "Katrina Syndrome". I was blaming bridge and lock attendants for contriving delays so the "outsiders" would be as unhappy as they were. But, seeing the moon rising from the eastern shore and the stars popping out in the night sky completely removed any grudge or negative feelings and we were on our way.
We were only eight miles from the safety of our reserved berth in the New Orleans Marina... or at least that was my thought process at present.
Being a fresh water cruiser, I had little experience with crab pots; those wire baskets with white Styrofoam floats that bob harmlessly in the shallow waters of our nations coasts. As Mickey and I made our way in the dark carefully toward our berth, we realized that all the crab pots in the the gulf had some how been drawn into the lake and were directly in the path of Detour. We dodged and weaved our way until I had had as much fun in one day as I could stand and we stopped, dropped anchor and opened a much needed bottle of Miller Lite. We were following the lake edge as closely as we dared to help us navigate in the dark and anchored about 400 yards off of what looked to be a park on shore. During the night we were reminded of the condition of the city as police cars, with sirens blaring traversed the park most of the night. We finished off a can or two of potted meat and vienna sausages and several Millers' and tried to settle nerves frayed by a day of excitement on the lower Mississippi river. The last thing I remember before sleep was the thought of so little gas remaining in our port tank.
As usual, we arose to one of those thick south Louisiana fog banks and a delayed day's departure. Normally, a late departure wouldn't make much difference but I had to catch a plane home in the afternoon and with a no change ticket, I didn't want to afford to miss it. Mickey had a little more leeway because he was catching the train to Tuscaloosa tomorrow and Carolyn, his wife, would be picking him up for the trip back to West Point.
city was silent and absent of the revelers that were always there, day or night, and even though it was always somewhat disheveled now it was in disrepair. If you just looked at city the damage was not that evident but when you looked at individual structures the strength of the August Lady was easily remembered.
It didn't take long for the sentiments of the storm to subside when that all too familiar sound of the starboard engine, attempting to gulp the few last ounces of fuel from the bottom of its tank, brought me back to our own sobering plight. We were running out of fuel again with the only marine gasoline in the city more than 12 miles or so away. I knew we could go several miles on the port engine but didn't know just how far. We throttled back to a idle and made our way through the ship yards, passed Canal Street, the French Quarter and south to the Inner Harbor Industrial Canal. The Industrial Canal connects the Mississippi River to Lake Pontchartrain and cuts the trip from Louisiana to Mississippi by about one half. 
It had been a long day on the river and we were hoping to get locked through the canal quickly because there were several draw bridges and railroad bridge to clear before we could get into the lake. There was tow being lowered when we arrived at the entrance to the lock and a tow waiting in the canal to be raised into the Mississippi. I eased Detour over to a old bridge abutment and Mickey held on and made us secure so we could kill the port engine and help preserve the precious little fuel we had left in our tanks. I can't remember how long it took but I do recall how low the sun was getting on the horizon. As the tow moved slowly out of the lock, I cranked the only running engine we now had and proceeded into the lock.
The lock at the Inner Harbor Industrial Canal was a little different than other locks on the rivers north. It had no floating bollards the lock attendant would simply throw a line down, fore and aft, and you would hold the line, taking up slack or letting it out (as was the case with us) as the need arose. Things were going smoothly when we got our first dose of "Katrina Syndrome" from the lock attendant. Definition: "Katrina Syndrome" a psychological license to blame anything, everything and anybody on the hurricane. The syndrome struck us several times and while we became thoroughly "pissed" at the attitudes we begin to understand, as time went on and we lived a short while in a world of people who's lives were unkindly rearranged by the ravages of nature. Case in point, I looked up and asked the lock attendant how far the New Orleans city marina was from here. He didn't hesitate to respond but the response was a little different than I expected, "do you have a chart... if you don't you don't need to be in a boat". Well I had a chart and I knew about how far but I figured a local might be able to give me an estimate of how long it would take us to get there so I might have a better idea of my fuel usage. Either "Katrina Syndrome" or a really unhappy lock attendant.
We moved carefully out of the lock and into the canal and my perception of the attendant's reply begin to become more understandable. The canal cuts a path through a portion of the ninth ward; the area so badly flooded in the aftermath of the hurricane. This industrial section was totally empty of humanity except for the occasional face we would see looking out from behind a deserted warehouse or washed out building or moving quietly along looking any object that might provide a means of income or maybe protection. I'm not sure I had ever experienced anything like this before; it was like those newsreels you see of a country in war where everything is pretty much destroyed and people are making the best out of survival.
The inner harbor canal is topped by several lift and stationary bridges that must be traversed when making your way to the lake. The St. Claude bridge was opening when we pulled out of the lock; I'm sure they heard us on the radio. We were fortunate to find the Claiborne Ave. bridge high enough for us to get under and the Florida Ave./Southern Railroad bridge opened on our channel 13 call. The Chef Mentour Blvd. bridge and the US 90 bridge are both very high and no problem for Detour. (I'm sure no one one would attempt to use this blog as a navigation guide and that's good because in writing from memory I may be taking liberties with the accuracy of the content.) We could see our final obstruction to our freedom into Lake Pontchartrain, the Sea Brook Railroad lift bridge and the Sea Brook highway bridge, also high enough to not cause a problem.
I knew from the cruise guide that the bridge master monitors channel 16. I hailed in my most captain-like tone and.. no reply. I think I may have used the wrong pronunciation and irritated the bridge master... or another "syndrome" issue?? We slowed to a halt and waited; no response. A train was moving across the bridge and we felt sure the bridge would open when it cleared. Not... when I called the bridge master, and after minutes of silence we received a response, another train was following the one on the bridge and we would have to wait. I asked if we could tie to a empty barge close to the bridge and save fuel; long radio silence followed by nothing. Mickey tied us to the barge and we waited for the bridge to open and darkness.
Our delay at the L and N railroad bridge was lengthy and when we finally cleared and slowly glided into Lake Pontchartrain we were beat mentally as well as physically and both had become seriously infected with a bad case of the "Katrina Syndrome". I was blaming bridge and lock attendants for contriving delays so the "outsiders" would be as unhappy as they were. But, seeing the moon rising from the eastern shore and the stars popping out in the night sky completely removed any grudge or negative feelings and we were on our way.
We were only eight miles from the safety of our reserved berth in the New Orleans Marina... or at least that was my thought process at present.
Being a fresh water cruiser, I had little experience with crab pots; those wire baskets with white Styrofoam floats that bob harmlessly in the shallow waters of our nations coasts. As Mickey and I made our way in the dark carefully toward our berth, we realized that all the crab pots in the the gulf had some how been drawn into the lake and were directly in the path of Detour. We dodged and weaved our way until I had had as much fun in one day as I could stand and we stopped, dropped anchor and opened a much needed bottle of Miller Lite. We were following the lake edge as closely as we dared to help us navigate in the dark and anchored about 400 yards off of what looked to be a park on shore. During the night we were reminded of the condition of the city as police cars, with sirens blaring traversed the park most of the night. We finished off a can or two of potted meat and vienna sausages and several Millers' and tried to settle nerves frayed by a day of excitement on the lower Mississippi river. The last thing I remember before sleep was the thought of so little gas remaining in our port tank.
As usual, we arose to one of those thick south Louisiana fog banks and a delayed day's departure. Normally, a late departure wouldn't make much difference but I had to catch a plane home in the afternoon and with a no change ticket, I didn't want to afford to miss it. Mickey had a little more leeway because he was catching the train to Tuscaloosa tomorrow and Carolyn, his wife, would be picking him up for the trip back to West Point.
