The Fisherman’s Village

For many, my hometown of New Orleans is a magical place; a unique blend of Native American, French, West African, and Spanish cultures that gives rise to a singular kind of southern disposition. It’s often described as one of the last few unique cities in the United States. People flock there because of the food (you can gain 10 lbs in a week if you’re not careful), the music (go to Frenchmen, not Bourbon), the people (they will cry, laugh, sing, scream, and chastize you, sometimes all in the same conversation), and the history (rich but also dark).

What people don’t know about New Orleans is the town within the town—the fishermen’s village. And no, I’m not talking about the East Bank or the thriving Vietnamese community in the Crescent City (Dong Phuong forever). I’m talking about the village of spirits living in the Gulf. Some just beyond the muddy banks of the Mississippi (although, not too many of those anymore), some in the swamps, estuaries, and lowlands, where nutria and gators cohabitate, and some even further out, living all along the Gulf Coast from Texas down the arm of Florida. They’re a powerful force, one that’s looked over the region for millennia, helping to fight coastal erosion, hurricanes, and petroleum spills. Some might even call them guardians.

Throughout history, folks have talked about and known hauntings of a specific kind: the LaLaurie Mansion, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, or the Bourbon Orleans Hotel, to name a few. Most people consider a haunting a bad thing — something tragic happened that’s kept souls tied to a specific place or thing in the mortal world, forever (at least until the wrong has been righted, as best it can). But a haunting can be many things. Sometimes, a haunting is simply someone or something that won’t or can’t be forgotten; a memory, transferred through time by place. It is the mycelium of the mangroves. It’s the oyster steadily filtering water to purify all manner of things that drift, impure or not, through the river.

Only a few know or talk about haunted waters rather than mansions or hotels, although they might not truthfully understand “haunting” to be what it is. Those who visit the bayou claim to see, hear, and feel aberrations and odd energies on their voodoo cruises and airboats. That’s not just the spirit of New Orleans, but the spirits of her banks, waters, and her lifeblood that maintain a delicate equilibrium in the South. That’s the Invisible City; the Fishermen’s Village underneath the water. It’s a special place, but most people don’t know the half of it.

Even as a native New Orleanian, well-versed in the city’s lore, I only recently discovered the truth of these hauntings. You’d imagine my shock when I uncovered these truths—in all places—taking out the trash in Washington, DC.

It was midday and I had not yet gone outside. I should go now, I thought, before it starts raining. I grab the boxes meant for recycling and leave through the front door. I turn the corner on 2nd St and make it to the little walkway between my neighbors’ houses that leads to the back alley. I toss my boxes in the recycling bin and look over, noticing how messy the downstairs neighbors keep the area underneath their steps. I’d never leave anything I’d want to keep down there — the alley rats had probably been all over that stuff.

I walk back through the little path, listening to another neighbor’s yappy dogs go crazy inside. As I pass through, I notice a slightly ajar fence, and I couldn’t help but peer into the backyard. I think this was the house the movers were hauling all kinds of nasty shit out of two weeks ago. It seems unoccupied now, and so I thought, well, two cushions from my upstairs patio furniture were missing from the last storm. I might as well see if they’re here.

The gate stuck on something — the ground, maybe — so I shimmied my way through. I had always been oddly curious about the old, seemingly abandoned houses on my block. That would make you think I live in a bad area, but truthfully, most of DC was like this, with the “nice” neighborhoods — Kalorama, Georgetown — being the exceptions. It felt familiar to New Orleans. Nicer areas quickly became projects and then back again.

I see a small set of stairs on my right and a path leading down to the basement door. I can’t fully see the landing in front of the door, so I move closer. Something flickers. Maybe a rat—then I got nervous that the house might be a colony. But I focus my eyes on the lower right corner of the door, the source of the flickering. The corner of the door is actually glitching, like pixelation or a dead spot on a TV. I’m stunned, immobilized by the scene in front of me. I can’t decide to move closer or high-tail it out of there.

A gentle wind picks up from behind me. It feels like it’s urging me forward. I take one step towards the door and feel a pull, emanating from what I think is the door, get stronger. Another step forward, but at this point, I’m not sure if I’m consciously moving anymore; it was just happening. I’m at the door and touch the knob where I feel a slight electrical pulse — nothing painful, a little fuzzy, like I’m touching Chinchilla fur. I turn the doorknob and look into the vast darkness. It’s a cold and almost hollow feeling inside. The wind behind me is very strong now — was it about to rain? Suddenly, I step forward without consent and tumble downward, rotating lackadaisically in the air.

I hear a soft “pluk” and feel warmth all around me. I don’t remember hitting anything, and yet I’m not in motion anymore. Did I blackout? The warmth around me feels almost gelatinous, soft, enveloping. It doesn’t feel like it’s just at my feet, as if I stepped into a dank, flooded basement. It feels more like being underwater in a pool in the sun, like when you’re surrounded by so much of something, it ceases to be anything. But I’m not struggling to breathe. In fact, I’m not struggling at all. I should be panicking, but I’m completely calm, trusting, open.

I feel suspended, both physically and emotionally, weightless. Something spongy and soft brushes beneath me. I realize at that moment I’m floating parallel to whatever ground is beneath me. Whatever it is beneath me is swaying gently but not sentiently. The bushy masses trace my belly, lazily brushing from side to side. It smells like the ocean, like oysters freshly shucked, the underbelly of the pier, where if gravity were turned off, you might have a hard time determining if you were actually underwater based on all the crustaceans and sea foliage clinging to the pilings.

Whatever I’m floating in is briny, viscous, thick, but not unpleasant. There’s not much sound around me, mostly vibrations. It seems like I can only hear movement, like the liquid changing directions, or like something splashing in the distance. I have a vague sense that I’m also rocking side to side, like a hammock with the bushy plants underneath. Maybe that’s the gentle whooshing displacement of space I’m hearing.

As my vision clears—the last of my senses to return—I’m seeing golden, cloudy rays of sunshine piercing through the water. Everything’s hazy at first, my vision slowly reconnecting from the center to the periphery. What I see before me is incredible. I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed anything as beautiful. Stretched as far as I can see are the roots of bald cypress trees reaching majestically into the soft silt below. Water hyacinth, salvinia, and gatorweed float above me like a crown of aquatic jewels. I’m suddenly very aware of my body and my orientation to all the things around me. I’m floating, parallel to the bushy clumps beneath me.

I look over and see a large manatee. She’s very close to me and slightly above me, brushing a fin along the top of my neck and head. How I know this animal is a “she” is beyond me, but I’m sure of this fact. As soon as her fin releases from the tip of my head, I see myself, outside myself. I’m floating above my body, which is also that of a manatee. I’m fluttering my fins by my side as if testing them, as if they are a baby bird’s wings about to be airborne for the first time.

Floating above the still, cool water, there’s an entire herd of us; maybe 40 graceful manatees moving through the water, imperceptibly pushing their way forward. They look as if they’re all children being called home by their mother, like they know they will have to go inside and stop playing to eat dinner soon, so they try to savor as much of the beautiful outside as they can for now.

This is how I came to know the Fisherman’s Village.