'Cajun Navy' sets sail to rescue those trapped by Louisiana flooding
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on August 15, 2016 at 12:59 PM, updated August 15, 2016 at 5:57 PM
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They call themselves the Cajun Navy, the Coonass Navy or the Brotherhood Soul Patrol. Whatever you call them, they're an armada of volunteers who set sail in the early morning hours from the parking lot of The Home Depot store on Coursey Boulevard in Baton Rouge to rescue neighbors, friends and strangers trapped by Louisiana floodwaters.
On this steamy Monday morning (Aug. 16), there were 22-plus boats and scores of volunteers gathering in the parking lot, just off Airline Highway and near the last eastbound Interstate 12 exit before the highway was barricaded. Getting an exact count of boats was difficult, however, as trucks and trailers hauling all manner of vessels kept coming. Then there were the dozens of people arriving without boats and looking to catch a ride to do whatever they can.
Some weren't sure what to expect. It would be their first trip into Central or the underwater neighborhoods off Old Hammond Highway, Millerville Road or O'Neal Lane. Those were no longer roads but channels.
For others, it wasn't their first rodeo. They spent the weekend hauling their boats to makeshift launches, venturing into swamped neighborhoods on search-and-rescue missions from the outskirts of Baton Rouge to the heart of neighboring Livingston Parish.
"We're just out here trying to help," said Warren Holmes, a resident of neighboring Ascension Parish. With his wife, Shannon, he had spent the weekend pulling people and pets out of water more than seven feet deep. "What are we supposed to do: Let them die?"
Kyle Page was both a victim of Louisiana's historic flood and a rescuer. His home in Denham Springs was on the verge of being swallowed when he scrambled out to check on family over the weekend, but he couldn't get back. He wanted to see his house but knew it was gone. He masked his own suffering by helping others.
"I've got to do something," he said, voice trailing off, "though I would like to see if I have anything left."
Livingston Parish resident Kyle Page, right, and a volunteer get into Page's truck, which saw floodwaters reach above the front grill during flooding in the Baton Rouge area.
A white Chevrolet pickup truck was the only thing he knew for sure was still his. It took every bit of its horsepower to muscle him through water three feet deep to safety. The front grill was clogged with grass, something of a water line. "It was actually higher than that," he says, pointing to a spot about five inches above the grass.
Someone asked whether he could drive a volunteer, who had gone 12 hours without eating, to a nearby McDonald's for a quick breakfast. "Gotta go," said Page, lumbering into the driver's seat. "Duty calls."
Listen to those who've volunteered for this Cajun Navy and something becomes clear pretty quickly: You have no clue just how bad the devastation is unless you see it firsthand.
Maybe those who suffered the horror of Hurricane Katrina's storm surge chasing them from the lives they once knew could appreciate the pain of seeing an eight-year-old boy clinging to life on the roof of a house that is no more, or the anguish of pulling a 73-year-old man with an oxygen tank from five feet of water.
Nothing, however, prepares you for cruising in a bass boat down what used to be O'Neal Lane, constantly changing direction as the engine's propeller bangs off submerged vehicles, and having the current push the boat and its crew 20 feet off course. This is not a rescue mission for novices.
"You better know what you're doing," Holmes said, "if you're going to take the helm of a boat. It's not pretty out there."
And then there's the devastation. It's everywhere: people in trees, on roofs, clinging to anything that floats in a mixture of floodwater, gasoline and sewage; pets scrambling frantically to stay afloat; furniture bobbing in the waves.
"Nothing prepares you for this, but you've got to do something," said Shannon Holmes, who is from California but has lived here for a dozen years. "These people need us."
Ryan Heck is a business owner and member of the East Baton Rouge Metro Council. On Monday, he also was a sailor in this band of brothers navy. Heck can be sarcastic and brutally blunt, but not Monday; he was fighting back tears, returning from another rescue mission to a part of the parish that few of his affluent constituents rarely saw before the storm. "There are people out there with water up to their eyes," he said in a trembling voice.
Heck was on a boat along what a few days ago was Old Hammond Highway, near the intersection of Ponderosa Drive, in the southeast suburbs of Baton Rouge. The entire area went underwater when the Comite River and Lively Bayou, which feeds into Jones Creek, jumped their banks, swallowing everything in sight.
"We're going to keep going out there," Heck said. "But eventually people are going to have to do a house-by-house search, and I'm horrified at the thought of what we're going to find."
On this steamy Monday morning (Aug. 16), there were 22-plus boats and scores of volunteers gathering in the parking lot, just off Airline Highway and near the last eastbound Interstate 12 exit before the highway was barricaded. Getting an exact count of boats was difficult, however, as trucks and trailers hauling all manner of vessels kept coming. Then there were the dozens of people arriving without boats and looking to catch a ride to do whatever they can.
Some weren't sure what to expect. It would be their first trip into Central or the underwater neighborhoods off Old Hammond Highway, Millerville Road or O'Neal Lane. Those were no longer roads but channels.
For others, it wasn't their first rodeo. They spent the weekend hauling their boats to makeshift launches, venturing into swamped neighborhoods on search-and-rescue missions from the outskirts of Baton Rouge to the heart of neighboring Livingston Parish.
"We're just out here trying to help," said Warren Holmes, a resident of neighboring Ascension Parish. With his wife, Shannon, he had spent the weekend pulling people and pets out of water more than seven feet deep. "What are we supposed to do: Let them die?"
Kyle Page was both a victim of Louisiana's historic flood and a rescuer. His home in Denham Springs was on the verge of being swallowed when he scrambled out to check on family over the weekend, but he couldn't get back. He wanted to see his house but knew it was gone. He masked his own suffering by helping others.
"I've got to do something," he said, voice trailing off, "though I would like to see if I have anything left."
Livingston Parish resident Kyle Page, right, and a volunteer get into Page's truck, which saw floodwaters reach above the front grill during flooding in the Baton Rouge area.
Someone asked whether he could drive a volunteer, who had gone 12 hours without eating, to a nearby McDonald's for a quick breakfast. "Gotta go," said Page, lumbering into the driver's seat. "Duty calls."
Listen to those who've volunteered for this Cajun Navy and something becomes clear pretty quickly: You have no clue just how bad the devastation is unless you see it firsthand.
Nothing, however, prepares you for cruising in a bass boat down what used to be O'Neal Lane, constantly changing direction as the engine's propeller bangs off submerged vehicles, and having the current push the boat and its crew 20 feet off course. This is not a rescue mission for novices.
"You better know what you're doing," Holmes said, "if you're going to take the helm of a boat. It's not pretty out there."
And then there's the devastation. It's everywhere: people in trees, on roofs, clinging to anything that floats in a mixture of floodwater, gasoline and sewage; pets scrambling frantically to stay afloat; furniture bobbing in the waves.
"Nothing prepares you for this, but you've got to do something," said Shannon Holmes, who is from California but has lived here for a dozen years. "These people need us."
Looking for ways to help? Here's how you can donate online and a map of where to drop off items around New orleans.
Ryan Heck is a business owner and member of the East Baton Rouge Metro Council. On Monday, he also was a sailor in this band of brothers navy. Heck can be sarcastic and brutally blunt, but not Monday; he was fighting back tears, returning from another rescue mission to a part of the parish that few of his affluent constituents rarely saw before the storm. "There are people out there with water up to their eyes," he said in a trembling voice.
Heck was on a boat along what a few days ago was Old Hammond Highway, near the intersection of Ponderosa Drive, in the southeast suburbs of Baton Rouge. The entire area went underwater when the Comite River and Lively Bayou, which feeds into Jones Creek, jumped their banks, swallowing everything in sight.
"We're going to keep going out there," Heck said. "But eventually people are going to have to do a house-by-house search, and I'm horrified at the thought of what we're going to find."
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