EARLY THE NEXT morning, we went out with rescue workers from the Navy, the Mississippi Department of Marine Resources, and the Mississippi Department of Wildlife, Fisheries and Parks, riding 19 johnboats into the Back Bay of Biloxi. We followed the water about 15 miles toward Gulfport and into a sewage-choked canal, where the goal was to deliver supplies to hundreds of Vietnamese who were stuck in their shrimp trawlers. They'd gone days without food or water after coming far inland to escape the storm, getting stuck behind a broken bridge.

Lieutenant Glen Jackson, a wildlife officer, had found the stranded shrimpers the day before and tried to call FEMA and the Red Cross for help, only to be put through endless phone calls and red tape.

"They sat there for eight days and no one asked them anything," Jackson said.

The canal was an endless wall of sun-faded and sea-beaten red, green, and blue boats. Green shrimp nets hoisted high, old tires used as buoys. About 70 huge boats, some with four to five families on board, were tied to scraggly pine trees down the canal. We saw beaten remains of some, half protruding from the water, while others had sunk whole.

They had names like Sea Angels, Viet Pride, Ivana, Captain No II. The canal had become a city, with clothes hanging on the lines and the smell of the diesel from a dozen sunk or battered boats. People had gone down with them; the Navy planned to send divers into the wreckage later.

Raw sewage colored the water a light, sickly brown. Some of the hardened wildlife agents wore masks against the smell as they passed out bottled water and MREs.

Thank-yous came in broken English. On the way out, a man waved his gratitude. Unable to speak English, he simply said, "My boat," and then pointed down into the canal. He smiled and shrugged.