I took off down to the end of Louisiana - Plaquemines Parish, the bird’s foot, where skin is flaking off and tendons are frayed. Places that once were are no more - 31 place names out of action and consigned to the vaults since 2011. Gaze off into the water and there lies the mirage of fields full of watermelon, mustard greens, orange groves and cattle. Endless, mainly men, come down to work the land, hunt from it, shore it up. Fishermen, dredgers, trawlers, duck hunters, land folk. Sometimes for months on end. At the Lighthouse Inn men attempt to wash their catches in the tub until management puts a stop to it. The duck hunters who travel from Gonzalez grill their birds with bacon, jalapeños and cream cheese - only lightly or they get tough - from the back of their trucks. Mallards, mainly, but also Puldos.
I met Lamont and Nate in the reception area where I was busy having fun with Jawold, the punk receptionist with the 2 earrings and 4 gold teeth, tattoo’d neck and beautiful Louisiana syrrrrpy beeeebe accent. They are down here doing a job for the Venice Port Complex (nee Louisiana Fruit Company) - injecting water activated foam apoxy into a loose lipped barrier that keeps weeping out either side, defeating the purpose of the protection it is designed to offer. Squelchy. Can’t behave. Land is relaxing and submitting to the endless tugging...It’s losing integrity, just slopping out.
I head over to find them the next day on Coastguard Road where they sit mixing this vehement yellow gunk up with the power of a 4.5kva gennie, barking out across the alligator laden waters. Job’s almost a good’n. Clients seem happy. [put biz card pic in]. Much of their work these days is fixing up the land, shoring it up, creating new land, grabbing it back from its attempts to slip quietly away. Not on our watch, they tell me - we can recoup this...