On the west bank of the Mississippi below New Orleans and above the Head of Passes, the work-boat docks in Venice have become a coon-ass Mecca for Louisiana's fisherman. Arriving for the clean-up and a shot at a paycheck from BP, this shrimp boat pilgrimage has swollen the waterways with traffic, enhanced the culture, devoured empty dock space and created a real hazard to navigation. The Coast Guard has at least begun to investigate the traffic problem. We'll see...
To reach Venice from the river, its a quick trip on a bubbling current through the Venice Jump and a right turn at the V into Tiger Pass, where two work-boat slips, 50 yards wide and 500 deep, service a variety of commercial endeavors but primarily the oil field. The little town itself rests uneasily beyond the levee, to the west and out of sight.
We're running out of Slip One, a mass of fishing boats junked together and blocking the entrance. Any decent-size boat can build up a lot of momentum down-bound; in the past week I've watched several boats enter the slip blindly, their view blocked by work-boats, two abreast on the north side. They make security calls at least on VHF 13; but its crazy, because the fishing boats aren't monitoring a radio without tunes, and they'll pull off the dock without looking. Despite sympathy for their cause, I can't help to wonder if some want to get hit, hoping for a lawsuit; the lawyer population looks healthy around here. Venice lives in madness.
I woke up offshore one morning, found the boat tethered to a sea buoy. I took the watch at 06:00, coffee & sunrise. In about an hour, we were cleared to head in, dropping off a few passengers on the way. As we neared land, the morning sky appeared as an interesting blend of sunlight, dark clouds and low-lying fog. I made it through the jetties with at least a mile of visibility, and then there was none, enveloped in white. Driving in fog is a video game, and fairly care-free offshore, but its very serious in pilotage waters. As long as I've got a reliable visual on radar, I'll drive the boat hooked up, throttles to the dash if no one's around, but that doesn't happen these days--its a constant boat parade in Baptiste Collette, at least in daylight.
That morning I pulled the throttles back and killed our wake, an immense 8-foot swell that will roll for miles if unencumbered. I reached for the radio and considered a call, checked the speed of the vessel astern on the AIS. With nothing to worry about, I slowly brought the engines up until the fog turned grey and wind whistled against the wheelhouse. Soon rain arrived, and I was blind. Torrential rain is more hazardous to negotiate than fog; a hard enough rain will wipe out any chance of the radar distinguishing a small vessel coming round a bend. I reduced to bare steerageway, saw only lightning out the windows; but just as quickly, the fog disappeared and I could see white-caps in the bayou, lush green foilage on the banks, trees shaking like pom-poms.
The Coast Guard has set up a decontamination center in the Jump, but boats are tracking in oil. Nearly 10 miles from the Gulf in any direction navigable by large vessels, a de-con station in Venice is like gettin' home with dirty boots and headin' to the bathroom to clean 'em up. It's stuck thickly to the hull's of the larger, slower boats.
Down-bound in the Jump and approaching Tiger Pass, I spin the boat around early, pivoting 180 and pointing the bow upstream. I've got more control of the vessel backing down from the stern controls where I can I crank up the bow thruster as precaution. Again, two work-boats on the north end, the mass of shrimpers on the other. I kill momentum with the outboards, reverse the rudder and begin to pivot, placing the port quarter just underneath the bow of the outside boat. I let the bow fall with the current, prepare to "walk" the boat to starboard in case that becomes necessary. It's congested, but clear enough at such slow speed.
There's an old fishing vessel, a real rust bucket, in our spot on the dock. I could run him out, but we've got enough room, so I take the boat in further forward and tie up facing stern to stern to the piece-of-junk boat. Our wheel-wash brings a tiny Vietnamese man out of the cabin to check his lines. He lights a cigarette. Anywhere along the Gulf it can turn from busy to still real quick. He shuffles around, produces a fishing line and weight and tosses it by hand toward the center of the slip. Now he's jigging the line, right in the filthy water of Slip One. An adolescent boy appears and makes to clean the deck. It's just passed 09:00.
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