What cannot be calculated with simple arithmetic, however, is the size of the losses to an entire population whose way of life and generations of identity are wrapped up in shrimp. Life in towns like Lafitte, Bayou Lafourche, Chauvin, revolve around the shrimp harvest. Faith, community, and income are all tangled up in those shrimp nets. As sub-adult shrimp float out of Barataria Bay, spurred by changes in the water’s salinity and temperature, then deposit eggs that float back in to mature, similar generational cycles occur on land. Kids are raised looking forward to the annual Blessing of the Fleet, where a Catholic priest prays for the safety and success of the local fishermen. Young couples fall in love while feasting and dancing at their local fais-dodo, where gumbo is served from enormous aluminum soup pots. Fathers teach their sons to build boats as their fathers taught them.

The next morning I leave camp early for Lafitte. I’m anxious to see for myself the mad rush of trawlers toward Nunez’s after the first few days of the season, when the prices, ostensibly, are still high. Trawlers line up the waterway toward the Gulf, waiting to unload thousands of pounds of shrimp. Conveyor belts work around the clock to empty the holds. On the drive south, the local radio plays on the rental car stereo, and the Pledge of Allegiance is recited over the airways in French: “J’engage ma fidelité au drapeau des Etats-Unis d’Amérique…”

Barry White’s voice wafts from an old boom box through the fishy air on the dock with Nunez singing along to “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe.” Nunez is sitting inside the air-conditioned office reading through a stack of receipts. Years ago, he would sit at this same desk handing out piles of cash, big fat stacks of hundreds, to shrimpers. Jean Lafitte Boulevard is dotted with large homes paid for with that cash—mortgages are rare in a world where outside institutions like national banks are looked on with suspicion. Now the office is almost empty. Outside on the dock, guys stand around an old soda machine, shuffling their feet, taking long drawn-out drags on their cigarettes. A conveyor belt sits motionless next to the water. Two old men in a rowboat pull up with a load of drum fish they’ve caught, and begin to unload.

“Right now,” says a guy with a push broom, “those drum fish’ll probably bring in more than shrimp. Those are some good-looking drums, but that’s crazy.”

Trawlers do not line the waterway. I stand on the edge of the dock and crane my neck to see if any are coming. Nothing. A lone trawler, The Blondie, is docked down the shore. The owner, Joe La France, unloads coolers of shrimp into the back of his pickup truck. These days, explains La France, much of the shrimper’s take isn’t headed to brokers or factories but sold directly to the consumer, whether it’s a few neighbors or an uptown chef. Cutting out the middleman often fetches a better price. But prices are so bad and expenses so high that sometimes barter is the better option. La France’s shrimp are going to the doctor who fixed up his wife Blondie’s foot after a recent injury. And to the groomer who takes care of their little dog. There’s no use trying to recoup any of their expenses on their first outing of the season. They have no intention of fueling up and heading out again. Period.

“The shrimpin’ economy’s been in the toilet so long, they done flushed it already.”

“We go out,” he says of himself and his wife, “because Blondie’s a Cheramie, and you know what that means.” Um, no, I don’t. “Blondie’d rather sell the house than the boat. It’s in her blood.”

Back at Nunez’s, the conveyor belt is finally running. Michael Enclade stands next to the scale in his white boots. He’s smiling. Just like the men on the radio, he’s jolly despite the grim situation. When asked what he’ll do—continue this season for a few more pushes, work the August season—he shrugs his shoulders. He’s never known another life, nor have any generations of his family.

“I started shrimping with my family when I was a little kid, messed with trappin’ a little in the winter, built my first boat when I was eighteen. I built this one here; now it’s worthless. And I still gotta pay my crew.” He wouldn’t let his kids work the season as he did with his dad. Now his son’s building circuit boards in Washington State.

“I’m sixty years old, can’t read, can’t write. How am I supposed to apply for a job?” Still, he can’t help but grin as he watches the thousands of pounds of shrimp coming out of the hold.

Driving back to camp, I pass back through the Cajun villages once overflowing with celebration this time of year. These days the roads are dotted with busted-up houses and moldy FEMA trailers. Shrimp boats rest on lawns, battered, beaten, and out of work. Post-Katrina, Louisiana’s shrimp fleet fell to half its pre-hurricane size. Processing warehouses were damaged, uninsured boats were destroyed, and fishermen lost their homes. Many never returned. Despite the state government’s efforts to rebuild the industry with relief moneys, plenty of fishermen see no advantage to starting from scratch in a dying industry.

Somebody passed Michael Enclade a flyer for a seminar in South Florida. The class is a tutorial on retrofitting trawlers into pleasure crafts. He’s thinking of attending. Looking over at the boat he built, he says, “I just can’t imagine a Jet Ski off the side of that thing.”