UM students traveled to Biloxi, Mississippi to talk to men and women who responded to and were affected by the Category 5 hurricane that decimated a majority of the area in 2005.
Driving down Highway 90, the scars of Katrina are still evident. Sure, many have rebuilt – those who have the wealth and ability to afford now-astronomical flood insurance policies – but next to the meticulously restored Creole cottages are concrete slabs of what used to be.
Almost ten years later, now-Police Chief John B. Miller can reflect on Katrina’s damage in his city of Biloxi. On August 29, 2005, the Mississippi Gulf Coast was slammed by the category five hurricane. Miller, Fire Chief Joe Boney, and Deputy Fire Chief David Williams were among some of Biloxi’s first responders.
Though the Mississippi Gulf Coast lost more than 60,000 structures, almost 300 people and suffered $125 billion in damages, it has become known as the “Invisible Coast” due to the media’s unadulterated focus on New Orleans. While the nation at-large forgot about those suffering in Hancock, Harrison and Jackson counties, these men and countless other first responders worked for weeks on end to help as many in need as possible.
“We said no to the ones we couldn’t get to,” Miller said. “Beforehand, we had gone around and told folks, ‘Look, we’re not going to be able to come and get you.’ That was probably one of the things that kept my consciousness in check.”
Of course, the Gulf Coast was no stranger to hurricanes.
“This was not our first rodeo,” Stan Tiner, Sun Herald editor-in-chief said, reflecting the feelings of many working to prepare for and in the aftermath of the storm.
“I had been through Camille,” Boney said. “You never get over it-you just try to keep it at bay.”
In the days before Katrina, first responders worked to prepare for the inevitable, deciding on leaders, dividing them into different sections of the city, and assigning other personnel specific jobs and chains of command. Though there was a fortified plan in place when Katrina struck ground, there was no planning for the massive amounts of damage or suffering. There is an obvious, human limit to what these men can do.
“There were some of those that we did get to by boat, but there were some we just absolutely couldn’t,” Miller said. “The wind was too strong. There was no break. We had guys ready to go. We had guys and gals who had gone and had made that attempt to go get them, and from a management point at some time…it’s like no, I’m going to need you here tomorrow.”
It is easy to forget the men and women who were saving others had to first make sure they were able to stay alive themselves.
Almost 10 years later, the men’s demeanor remains stoic and calm – undoubtedly what kept them going during the crucial days before and after the storm. Today, aside from keeping the coast safe on a day-to-day basis, they put their energy into preparing for the next inevitable storm, primarily focusing on training and investing in equipment.
“Not only have we changed it, but we’re constantly updating it,” Miller said. “Yearly we review our hurricane plan and our natural disaster plan. It’s constant. You can’t just make a plan and sit it on the back burner and leave it for several years, not in this day and time.”
Both police and firefighters’ primary concern is that they can provide sustainable service if electricity and water are shut down.
“I wish it had never happened,” Miller said. “Now, looking back, I’m a lot wiser, a lot less hair, I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. I would not wish it on anybody, and I certainly wish we didn’t have to go through it, but I wouldn’t trade that time for anything. It certainly changed me.”
The men are practical. They said another storm could be just around the corner. Living on the invisible coast has taken its toll both materially and emotionally.
