My friends and I headed outside to walk around, but the water was rising too fast, climbing up to front doors and higher.
Tin roofs were getting blown off of houses. Water in the street was now flowing like a river. Trash blocked up drains, and you could see the rainwater backing up. But still, it was like the flooding I remembered from when I was a kid that I would go out and play and splash my friends in.
We saw families praying, people crying and hollering, “I want to get away.” Helicopters buzzed overhead. To get their attention, people waved white rags. I continued saying, “I ain’t going.” I was still thinking it was going to pass over.
Water crept eerily close to the house, so we went to hang out at the projects, which were on higher ground. From the balconies, we could see the Interstate, so dense with cars that it looked like the Saints had just made it to the Superbowl. We also saw families streaming toward the Superdome, kids on fathers’ backs, because the water would have been over the heads of little ones. Children were bawling and all the while, the water level kept rising.
I yelled down, “Where y’all goin’?”
They called back, “Y’all crazy staying in the projects. Y’all better get out of the projects while y’all can.” Families that didn’t get along before the storm were now helping one another.
Seven of us were having fun up on the fourth floor, playing cards and dominoes. We lit candles and put hot dogs—along with ice that hadn’t yet melted—into the cooler. Just knowing those franks were there made us hungry; before long we grilled them on the balcony.
Some of the guys started saying, “I wish I woulda gone with them.”
The rest of us razzed them, “Now you want to chicken out. You’re scared.”
We all stayed put.
Without air conditioning, it was crazy hot indoors, so we dragged sofas, chairs, and pillows outdoors in order to sleep on the balcony. We had plenty of space, because there was no partition between the neighbors. Although we were somewhat sheltered by an overhang, thunder and gusty rain continued, soaking us as we slept in the open air that bleak, black night.
We awoke to windows shattering, trees crashing, and wires strewn on the ground in scribble scratch patterns. The seven of us got into a huddle and said, “Man, this thing gettin’ intense.”
“This thing actually comin’.”
“Too late to cry about it now.”
“We gotta stand up to it,” I said. We knew we had to face whatever was about to happen.
The flooding got so high, like I’d never seen before. If I went down, the water would be up to my nose. It seemed crazy to even try.
Nonetheless, I told them, “I don’t care what y’all say, I’m goin’ down.” At least I knew how to swim, though some of the guys did not. Three of my friends trailed behind me.
Wearing shorts, a basketball jersey, and Timberland boots, I half swam, half waded through the flooded streets. We made our way out of the projects and over to the rich folks’ side of town called the Garden District.
In front of a vacated yellow house with white shutters, we saw a motorboat. Inside the garage, leaning against a wall, we found some plywood, which we took to use as paddles. We also discovered rain jackets, boots, goggles, and flippers hanging on racks in the back. We put on the jackets and tossed the rest into the boat and then climbed in.
As we floated down the street, we waved at some folks in big old boats. Others navigated with jetskis, while we paddled with sticks back toward the projects. We had no intentions of leaving, but we offered assistance to others who wanted to evacuate.
“Anyone want to go to the Superdome?” I called out. “We got a boat.”
We felt almost festive, cruising past what—only days earlier—had been pristine houses with tidy lawns. Little did we know what lay ahead . . . and what was waiting for us on our way back toward the projects.
