http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/03/us/03land.html
THIS LAND
Learning to Love the Sea, Then Torn From It
Nicole Bengiveno/The New York Times
Thuong Nguyen, 50, lives on his shrimping boat in Venice, La., and cannot fish because of the oil spill. More Photos »
By DAN BARRY
Published: May 2, 2010
VENICE, La.
This Land
Dan Barry takes readers behind news articles and into obscure and well-known corners of the United States.
Related
BP Moves to Fix a Leak as Obama Warns of Damage (May 3, 2010)
Safety Fears Halt Fishing in Areas Affected by Spill (May 3, 2010)
Relief Well Was Used to Halt Australian Spill (May 3, 2010)
Where the world runs out of road and into bayou, and all that is left beyond is the Gulf of Mexico, dozens of docked shrimp boats bob in place, restless. They should be out right now, green nets trawling for cash in crustaceans. But here they sit, their dry nets not even catching the air.
Among these many boats — actually, between the Capt. Andy and the Capt. James — there rocks the St. Martin. And on the St. Martin, there lives its owner, a small, muscular Vietnamese-born American named Thuong Nguyen, whose right forearm bears a tattoo that says, in his native language:
“Life is difficult.”
Now his difficult, amazing life has been capsized by events not of his doing. Again.
Here is where Mr. Nguyen, 50, should be: on another 10-day trip out near Breton Sound, his two deckhands beside him, his lucky hurricane dog at his feet, trawling through the day and into the night, when all he can see is the celestial display he calls a “star soup.”
But in another lesson of how all is connected, an offshoreoil rig leased by a multibillion-dollar corporation exploded nearly two weeks ago. Which, in addition to killing 11 workers, ruptured a well. Which caused an ever-mushrooming oil slick. Which led to the closing of the country’s most fecund fishing grounds, from the Mississippi River to Florida’s Pensacola Bay, for at least 10 days.
Which has stalled, and possibly ruined, the livelihoods of thousands, including this diminutive man living on his boat at the very end of a place that calls itself the “end of the world.” All he can do is paint, knock down some rust, and accept his boat’s lullaby sway.
The pause fills Mr. Nguyen with anger, yes, but also guilt. In addition to providing for his family, he takes to heart the job of gathering some of the food you may eat tonight. “And now I cannot help out, so I feel like I’m — fail,” he says. “I cannot bring in more seafood from here.”
To find Mr. Nguyen in his fitful rest, take Louisiana Highway 23 south, the instructive road that bisects narrow Plaquemines Parish. The passing seafood shacks and oil tanks, the boat storage yards and the parked trucks of offshore riggers reflect the shared interests in the gulf’s bounty.
Continue past the Riverside Restaurant, where Hurricane Katrina tried but failed to scrub away the marshland mural painted by an itinerant artist; past the damaged and ghostly shopping center; past the Katrina debris jutting from a landfill. The hurricane that defined 2005 nearly wiped this community away, but the people came back; adapted; are trying again.
The road unwinds and frays at the bottom, with one last strand ending at the Venice Marina. Many of the boats here are owned by Vietnamese men and women who, some 20 years ago, added a Southeast Asian flavor to the Cajun-Croatian stew of the parish. It took a while, but the stew has settled, mostly.
In 1991, Mr. Nguyen became another unfamiliar presence on the docks, altering the way things had always been. He would go out on his uncle’s boat, chock-full of Dramamine, and hear the Asian slurs of other shrimpers coming across the ship-to-shore radio.
How do you respond? How do you quickly explain: I fled the Communists in a boat smaller than the one you are on now, crammed with three dozen others for 11 days. Little water. Vomiting. People praying to Jesus and Buddha. You cannot imagine.
How do you say: I am an American citizen now. I am married to an American. I have children. I was working at a battery factory in St. Joseph, Mo., when my uncle asked me to help him on his shrimp boat. So we live here now, in Plaquemines Parish.
Time washed away most of the tension. Mr. Nguyen, his wife, Dorothy, and their four children lived in a double-wide trailer in Buras, a few miles north of Venice. Eventually, he raised enough money to buy the St. Martin, a 65-foot used boat found in Houma; the purchase allowed him to promote himself to captain.
Once he was a man whose only maritime experience was a horrifying slog toward freedom; now Mr. Nguyen lived to be on the water. He would joyously tell his wife how, on the first day of shrimp season, the lights of the many boats gathered in the predawn looked like a city afloat.
Katrina hit while the family was out of town. Mr. Nguyen returned to a collapsed double-wide, two dead family dogs, and the absence of irreplaceable family photographs from Vietnam and Missouri. But he eventually found the St. Martin a mile from its slip, damaged yet upright. And he took in an abandoned puppy cowering near the dock; Lucky, he called it.
Mr. Nguyen insisted that his family start over in Missouri, while he repaired his boat. After several months, the rhythm returned. He would collect his two deckhands, buy ice, fill the fuel tank and the rice box, and head out.
This Land
Dan Barry takes readers behind news articles and into obscure and well-known corners of the United States.
Related
BP Moves to Fix a Leak as Obama Warns of Damage (May 3, 2010)
Safety Fears Halt Fishing in Areas Affected by Spill (May 3, 2010)
Relief Well Was Used to Halt Australian Spill (May 3, 2010)
The men would take turns steering, cooking and sleeping, as the boat moved, back and forth, back and forth, around the clock. The heavy chain dragged at the back would “scare” the shrimp into the nets, he says. And every four hours, the men would haul in, rinse clean the catch, and dump the take into the ice-laden hold, while Lucky chased away the hungry birds.
Sometimes, at sea, Mr. Nguyen would talk by cellphone — uninterrupted — to his wife and youngest son in Missouri, or to his daughter, married to a soldier, in Kansas, or to his oldest son, who works for an oil company, in New Orleans.
Sometimes, standing at the wheel, where bouquets of plastic flowers adorn the dashboard, he would talk to his second-oldest son, Bo — a soldier, he says, who has done two tours of war and is now preparing for a third.
Sometimes, under the starry soup that could make him feel as small as the creatures he pursued, Mr. Nguyen would forget about the threat of foreign imports, the fluctuating prices, the lingering tension along the docks. He would feel peace in his mission.
“I go out there, and I bring back seafood for this country,” he says.
Several days ago, Mr. Nguyen learned of the large event disrupting his small world, an event that has denied him those offshore moments that fulfill him. He has no high school degree, no other training: hauling shrimp is what he does.
He says he understands that oil is essential; it fuels his boat. What he doesn’t understand is the delay and uncertainty, as shrimp boats remain tethered. “The company don’t have a right answer,” he says. “And the government don’t have a right answer.”
On Friday, Mr. Nguyen went to a meeting at a local school that focused on how to clean up hazardous materials.
On Saturday, he attended another meeting, this one held by the corporation whose accident has made his difficult life more difficult. He received a piece of paper saying that, according to the “BP Gulf of Mexico Operations,” he had completed all requirements for “GoM Spill Response Efforts” — should his services be needed.
And on Sunday, as President Obama visited the Coast Guard station a half mile away, this tattooed man worked hard to suppress the call of the sea. He rinsed out some shirts, painted a boom and shared fresh catfish with his hurricane dog, Lucky.
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