Covering Gustav

Sunday, Aug. 31 - 5:50 a.m. (New Iberia, La.)

When the coverage goes wall-to-wall, news crews grab a “z” or two whenever they can.

We don’t want to miss anything, so we usually nap in the satellite truck.

That way any rain or wind will wake us up.

- Rick Portier

Sunday, Aug. 31 - 11:30 p.m. (New Iberia, La.)

Water and electronics don't mix.

It's a constant struggle to keep whipping rain out of our connectors.

A ziplock bag and some duct tape make an easy water-tight bag to protect the cables between live shots.

- Rick Portier

Sunday, Aug. 31 - 5:30 p.m. (New Iberia, La.)

Made it to New Iberia, but emotions are mixed.

We were geared up for ground zero, but another crew working in our sister station’s truck was already there.

That’s how it goes.

Getting some sleep before it gets crazy.

- Rick Portier

Sunday, Aug. 31 - 1:00 p.m. (Grand Isle, La.)

Jim Shannon will make some woman a good wife one day. 

He cooked breakfast for the crew and did laundry before leaving Grand Isle.

Now the real work begins.

On to New Iberia to ride out the storm.

Sunday, Aug. 31 - 5:30 a.m. (Grand Isle, La.)

I can't believe it's 5:30.  It seems like I just went to bed, but it's time to get ready for the morning live shots.

I'm not sure how this works, but my alarm clock did not ring this morning, but my body bolted upright at the exact time the clock was set.  I didn't know where I was, but I knew I had something to do.  When the cobwebs cleared, I headed to the truck.

The newscast doesn't start 'til 7, but we've got lights to set and stories to feed back before the news, and there's so much that can go wrong, we want to give ourselves lots of time to troubleshoot.

The truck is running like a charm, but the weather hasn't started yet.

6:50 a.m.  Camera troubles this morning.  Nothing big, just a little lens fogging.  When the camera comes out of an air-conditioned camp into the thick, humid air around here, it's instant fog.  That hair dryer I wrote about yesterday saved the first couple live shots of the day.

7:05 a.m.  Just heard our Meteorologist Diane Deaton giving the good news . . . well, relatively good news.  The storm has weakened some.  Now predicted to make landfall as a cat. 3.   Still bad, but I could see relief on Cheryl's face.  I think all our spirits lifted with that news.

Saturday, Aug. 30 - 8:30 p.m. (Grand Isle, La.)

It's been a busy day.  But finally, after the 6pm news, we got to take a break.  It's a mixed blessing.  We need the down time to get a little food, rest, and recharge, but slowing down also allows us to catch up on the latest on Gustav.

Lots of people think that because we're on the front lines, we know everything that's happening.  Actually, we're pretty isolated.  We know everything that's happening on the island.  At this point, that's not much considering just about everyone has evacuated already.

While we're working, we don't have much time to concern ourselves with the rest of the world.  We just concentrate on getting the job done.  In down time, we check with our sources in the area, consult with the newsroom, talk to our families, and worry.  Thank God there's not much down time to speak of.

We've got a television and we're catching the latest updates from the news like everyone else.  From all reports, Gustav is going to be a lot bigger and badder than any of us really bargained for.

No one really wants to admit it, but the knot in each of our stomaches is pretty evident by the looks on our faces.  We're in no danger now.  But we're worried about tomorrow.  Where will we be?  Will we find a place to hunker down before all hell breaks loose.

Tonight we sat down to a hearty meal -- pastalaya my folks gave me when I blew through Thibodaux last night.  It'll probably be our last real food until Wednesday.  But we won't starve.  We've still got MRE's, sandwich provisions, and some deer sausage we packed Friday -- at least I think it was Friday.  You kind of lose track of time when days are as busy as they are here.

Cheryl Mercedes and photojournalist Charles Holmes showed up this afternoon.  They're covering what's going on on the island tonight.  From where I sit, inside our satellite truck, it doesn't look like much, but they've found a few stragglers boarding up in the dark.  From what Cheryl told me over the phone a few minutes ago, they sound like a hoot.  You'll get to meet them on WAFB tomorrow morning.

As soon as our 10p.m. shot is done, I'm gonna grab a bottle of water, spend a few minutes alone with my thoughts on the beach, and turn in.  Tomorrow is another long, busy day.

- Rick Portier

Saturday, Aug. 30 - 5:30 p.m. (Grand Isle, La.)

Our first crew is here, working on a couple stories for 5:30.  Our home base is a camp that sleeps 24 people.  It ain't always this nice.  We're pacing ourselves for a long trip.

- Rick Portier

Saturday, Aug. 30 - 11:30 a.m. (Grand Isle, La.)

If you're going to be with us behind the scenes on this trip, you'll have to familiarize yourself with our gear.

Besides shooting video, I operate WAFB's satellite truck.  It's how we get the coverage back to Baton Rouge.  The truck is a big, heavy van with tons of complicated-looking electronics inside.  Aside from our cameras and mics, it's the most important piece of equipment.

Along with the obvious, water, food (we've got MRE's coming out of our EAR's) when we hit the road to cover hurricanes, we take a lot of stuff you wouldn't think about.

Driving through missing roofs, and fallen walls, we're bound to pick up a nail or two, so before leaving town every crew stocks up on Fix-A-Flat.  Rain-Ex ain't just for windshields.  It helps keep our lenses clear and our shots in focus.

That hair dryer at the bottom of the picture isn't just to keep the reporters well-coiffed.  It comes in handy to de-fog a lens or dry the humidity from our cameras as well as dry our socks.

And might surprise you to know that no storm chaser worth their Doppler would dream of leaving the station without a box of condoms . . . Now, now, you're getting ahead of me.  They're not for a game of Beach Blanket Bingo.  Condoms are the absolute best things we've found to keep our microphones dry and operating like they're supposed to.

And one thing not pictured, but equally important, is a giant tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste.  Perfect for those occasions when sand gets trapped in your sensitive parts.  And there's a whole lot of sand blowing around Grand Isle.

 

- Rick Portier

Saturday, Aug. 30 - 12:00 a.m. (Grand Isle, La.)

It's midnight.  I'm the first of our crew to arrive on Grand Isle.  The long drive from Baton Rouge gave me a lot of time to think about what lies ahead . . . and behind.

It's something we've all been doing lately.  Five years ago, the best meteorologists could give us with any certainty was a three-day forecast.  That gave folks like us, who rush headlong into the teeth of storms, little time to reflect on what might be.  Three days was just enough to throw some clothes in a bag, gas up the satellite truck, and make it to the coast to watch the surf roll in.

Now, with five-day projections, we get to sweat the details.  While the newer faces in the newsroom jockey for position to nab a spot on the beach, I've had a knot in my gut for three days.

From the time Gustav flared up, I've had a bad feeling about this one.  I've spent 20 years shooting news on the Gulf Coast and chasing storms like Gustav.

Storm coverage is never easy -- three, four, five days eating sandy food from a cellophane bag.  It's long hours, mind warping stress, and adrenaline rushes you'll never find in any amusement park.  It's sugar highs and big crashes.  It's dicey phone connections back to the station and high fives to the crews in the field who are the only ones who truly know what it took to get the coverage on the air.  It's a time for newsies to prove what they're made of, and it's no place to take chances.

  Speaking of newsies, we've got a great crew on the way.  Reporter Jim Shannon (shown above) and Photojournalist Joe McCoy (left) watched Katrina roll into New Orleans and stayed for weeks covering the aftermath.  They each have more than 20 years in the business, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather have around when the winds pick up.  Later this weekend, Reporter Cheryl Mercedes and Photojournalist Charles Holmes join the mix to help with WAFB's continuing coverage of Gustav.

Along with Cheryl and Charles, Randy LeDuff joins the team on Sunday.  A 30-year news veteran and satellite operator, Randy is always a go to guy when we're running and gunning in remote locations.

Two nights ago, my wife told me she didn't want to take this trip.  No fussing.  No arguing.  Just a simple statement.

In most homes, that might pass without notice.  In the Portier house, it was the first time those words have ever been spoken.  It hit home hard.  She knows the station, and our viewers are counting on me.  And she knows too well that I'd be miserable anywhere but in the thick of things.  Still part of me wants to be left behind.

It's an emotional tug-of-war that we all go through every time a storm threatens to send crews to the coast.

It's not the dry assignment in the State Office of Emergency Preparedness that we want.  It's not that we loathe sleeping on a satellite truck floor, sand in our teeth, or seaweed in our shorts.  It's what these little excursions into absurdity do to our families.

For the past 20 years, every time we head to the coast, our wives and husbands put on a brave face and kiss us good-bye at the door not really sure when we'll be coming back.  They're left to keep life normal at home without us.  And as much as we worry about everyone back home while we're surfing with a satellite dish, we can never imagine what we're putting them through.

Just once I might like to be left behind . . . Probably not.  But when the winds are raging outside, it's a lot nicer curling up with my wife than a soggy news crew.

- Rick Portier