"KATRINA": A Coast Guardsman's Narrative

By Brandon Guldseth

Hurricane Katrina devastated the gulf coast of the United States in late summer of 2005. The city of New Orleans soon became a world like none other. Deluged by severe flooding, its residents turned to basic instincts to survive the chaos. Coast Guard response teams navigated its watery depths to discover that not all of the tragedy would remain on the surface...but, deep within ones conscience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098303389

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Brandon A. Guldseth

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-09830-337-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09830-338-9

To those who suffered in the wake of Hurricane Katrina;

My heart still bleeds

I would be lost without you in my life

Wife Tracy, daughters Delaney and Ella, and son Jason

-My Wolfpack-

Contents

INTRODUCTION

SEMPER PARATUS

ONE SMALL STEP FOR MAN

THE HEAVENS WERE WAITING

BRUSH WITH DEATH

DOG IN BOAT

VISION OF HELL

"ANGST AND THE LIGHT"

INTRODUCTION

The pages laid forward are a recollection of events that transpired during the summer of 2005. My memories have been splayed, in order to retain a cogitative portrayal of occurrences that will one day succumb to the unfair prejudices of time. Some events will remain untold; not by intentional deceit, but, through the declining glow of remembrance.

I have often found it difficult to express my thoughts and feelings on the topic of Hurricane Katrina. Many conversations never occurred or were prematurely halted due to my inability to remain mentally and emotionally stable. Words in a written format are much easier to pass down. Some things described within the text, I refuse to read aloud.

I cannot say that one event in my life has formed my thoughts or essence of being. We live and die in a world that is translucent in many regards. The intentions pushed upon the masses have a sweet smell to them. The curtain tends to shine with diamond inlay. It is evocative and alluring. Can you see the false pretense? I can. My eyes have clear lenses that are able to pierce the deception which coats our vision.

Exposure to extreme environments can bring ones inner-self to the surface for a cleansing. Gone are the emotional sins contrived from the comforts of living in a world that caters to ones needs and unjust desires. Greed, lust, Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride…all make way for a singular new design. Transformation of one’s self is an adaptation to stress.

It is here, that I can take solace and I remain aware. It is here, where those who are lost, can continue to exist; Shadows escape from the womb without undue fear. It is here where we can remain tattered…real flowers in a tomb.

CHAPTER ONE

SEMPER PARATUS

ALWAYS READY

The sunlight glimmered on my face from directly overhead. I sat on a concrete stoop, which was no more than a crumbling block of limestone, just a long stone’s throw away from the mighty Mississippi River. A slight breeze wiggled the shoestring on my black military boots, worn and in desperate need of some tender care and a little bit of shoe polish. Or maybe there wasn’t a breeze at all . . . maybe I believed there to be a breeze and my senses or recollection of the events have been skewed. My memory does not serve me best anymore, or shall I say, it never has. You see, I cannot remember how I came to be on that filthy step in the little town of Keokuk, Iowa, a once-thriving river town on the muddy banks of the Mississippi. The town had a charm to it that I could not appreciate in those days.

The descriptions often written in masterpiece novels of Mark Twain come alive in this little town. The architecture jumps out, similar to words from a book or details in a vision, perhaps one that I would never actually get to see with my own two eyes. There was also a feeling in the place that gave me a sense of comfort. This sense eludes me in most ways today. I felt young again, younger than I actually was. I felt like swimming down in the river, like staying all day on its muddy banks and basking in the sunshine. I felt like walking up one block from the river and grabbing a piece of pie, then strolling down main street with a group of friends, kicking rocks as we go or jumping over sidewalk cracks. This was the comforting feeling that warmed me—a down home sense of care and wonder, a timeless passage that stops and you never seem to escape from it.

I seem to get drawn into reminiscing and can stay there all day in these subtle places that I create. The happiness and comfort seem to be there, but, also the dread and decay of others can arrive just as quickly, and sometimes more efficiently. Like a spider on a dew laden web, efficient killers of living things which can trap and remove all life and movement. Appropriate cognitive thinking and discernment of my surroundings seemed to elude me in this instant. Again, I do not remember how I got onto that step, but, I do remember the past now. It flickers in and out as if it is a broken lamp, something on a dark street and struggling to light the cold, wet, abandoned road. This is how the memory feels and seeps into my conscious. I am drawn to it, and at the same time, afraid to search the darkness on which it may shed light.

My broken mind be still for an instant as I remain numb, sitting on that stoop in a town that care essentially forgot, or maybe just society. The waiting is now over. I see a familiar SUV pull up to take me home as my wife’s smile shines through the windshield. It is over; finally, it’s over. Or wait a minute. Has it just began? I rode the forty miles back to our small apartment in Illinois after having been gone for two weeks.

Ah, yes. Katrina! Katrina was her name. The name of the monstrosity that was considered a storm or violent wind portrayal of the best Shakespearean narrative ever created. The lighted portions of my memory can now be attributed to those flashes of lighting, the swirling clouds of misery, and the wind of death’s breath blowing into my ear.

It’s almost as if the city itself kept calling me, even though I had been back to New Orleans several times after the beast ripped apart the fabric of the city and plunged it into a lawless, chaotic hole. Even hell could not reciprocate Hurricane Katrina’s lack of compassion. Come back to me. Come back to me, was all I heard every time I departed the city.

I made a career choice ten years prior to the events of Katrina to join the United States Coast Guard. The small unit that I served, was no doubt, a great branch of the military, often overlooked and very much misunderstood. During the course of my Coast Guard career, I was charged with managing the radio command center positioned in Keokuk, Iowa. We were a smaller unit directed by Sector Upper Mississippi River, St. Louis, Missouri. It was under this unit that I was called upon to serve in New Orleans following the tragic events that unfolded there. A few years following the destructive landfall of Hurricane Katrina, I was charged with managing the requisition of new Coast Guard small boats that were being constructed out of Jeanerette, Louisiana, a two-hour drive west of New Orleans. The fifteen trips that I made to New Orleans during this time serves as a reminder of all the people and