Kailey, 6, nets a redfish as her aunt, Judy Vitrano, cheers the effort. Before redfish were placed under management in 1987, the daily limit for sport fishing was 50. Today, it is five.

Day Six: Friday, March 29, 1996 Paradise pushed to the limit Power shifts to sport fishing The big one that didn't get away 'I'll stop fishing when I die' Northwest salmon fading fast

‘I’ll stop fishing when I die’

By Bob Marshall,
Staff writer

A cold wind punch es through Port Sulphur and sends an icy chill across the marsh, but a warm glow comes from the tiny trailer the Rocker family calls a camp.
  Henry Rocker, 65, is telling stories about fishing trips, first with his father, then his seven children, and now with his grandchildren. He remembers days and nights prowling the marshes between the boat ramp and the Gulf of Mexico, camp-outs on the beaches, breakdowns on mud flats, crab boils and fish fries.
  The memories are shining in his eyes, the laughter flowing.
  Then someone asks about the future, and the laughter dies.
  ‘‘I don’t know, I just don’t know,’’ Rocker said, the tiny room now quiet as a wake. ‘‘I’ve seen the marsh destroyed so much, just disappear. This was such an important part of my life — my family’s life — I don’t even like to think about what’s coming.’’
  His son, Chip, has.
  ‘‘It’s like watching someone you love die with cancer,’’ said Chip, 38. ‘‘It just hurts in your heart. You try to ignore it, deny it, think about the good times. But you can’t help notice that it’s wasting away, losing the fight.
  ‘‘You keep on fishing, but that thought is always there, just kind of nagging at you.’’
  The Rockers aren’t alone. Every week hundreds of thousands of fishing families gather along the Louisiana coast from Delacroix to Cameron to renew their cherished tradition, and worry about its future.
  The signs of change come in with each wave. They have seen their favorite camping spots reclaimed by the Gulf and the marshlands overrun by salt water. They know that the fish and their way of life may not be far behind.

The Rocker family enjoys some tranquil fishing time near Port Sulphur. 'Fishing, really, has been apart of my family as long as I can remember,' Henry Rocker said.

Nation of fishers
  That they express such concerns doesn’t surprise Mark Duda, executive director of Responsive Management, a Virginia research company that recently concluded a national survey revealing that 96 percent of Americans support sport fishing. That support, research showed, is not superficial.
  People have strong personal memories of fishing associated with families and friends that transcend a simple sporting activity, Duda said.
  ‘‘This was a dominant theme. People got teary-eyed about childhood memories of hunting or fishing,’’ Duda said.
  ‘‘I think it’s wrong to call hunting and fishing recreational activities. They are clearly more than that to most people.’’
  And there are few places in the nation, if any, where fishing is such an integral part of the culture as it is in south Louisiana. This is a people who were shaped by the marshes and Gulf waters. The natural wealth of the wetlands was a major reason Louisiana was settled, initially by American Indians, then by Europeans, who cast their lines and nets into surrounding waters for subsistence and then turned cooking that bounty into an art form.
  That unique heritage was never lost, even when supermarkets changed fishing from necessity to recreation. As late as the mid-1950s, trains dubbed ‘‘sportsmen’s specials’’ left New Orleans in the wee hours of weekend mornings, booked solid by fishers heading to then-distant outposts such as Chef Pass, the Rigolets, Shell Beach and Hopedale.
  The trains have stopped running, but the fishers haven’t. The state Department of Wildlife and Fisheries estimates that 500,000 of Louisiana’s 4.2 million residents are saltwater sport fishers; more than 100,000 people buy licenses in the metro New Orleans area alone.
  Evidence of that popularity can be seen any weekend morning as highways become clogged by sport fishers towing their boats to more than 30 local hoists, ramps and marinas. And in most of those boats you will find generations of friends and families, like the Rockers, people who can’t imagine life without fishing in their marshes.
  ‘‘Fishing, really, has been a part of my family as long as I can remember,’’ Henry Rocker said. ‘‘Some of my earliest memories of my dad involve fishing. We had a camp out at Little Woods, and the whole family would go out there and catch tremendous amounts of crabs, bull croakers and white trout.
  ‘‘I bought a boat when I was 17 years old, still in high school at Jesuit. A 14-footer with a 10-horsepower Mercury, that was a pretty big deal back then.
  ‘‘Around 1947, we started coming down here to Port Sulphur. It was gorgeous then, and the fishing was great. So this is where I stayed, and started my kids out.’’
  Chip Rocker says it’s impossible to forget those days.
  ‘‘A lot of what we did as a family revolved around fishing,’’ he said. ‘‘Of course, we’d fish almost every week, but fishing was also part of other family events. We’d rent a camp at Grand Isle for big family vacations. We’d have fish fries, crab boils.
  ‘‘My high school graduation present was a boat, a 14-foot semi-V with a 25-horsepower Evinrude. That was heaven for me.’’
  Chip followed his father into the family electrical contracting business, and also followed his lifelong love of the marsh. He is an admitted fishing addict, keeping records of every trip on a computer, reading everything he can find on the subject. He bought the small camper trailer so he could make two-day trips without having to return to New Orleans. And the family’s passion for fishing has claimed another generation: On most outings his daughter, Kailey, 6, is at his side.
  ‘‘I can’t get enough of it,’’ Chip said. ‘‘I just have this thirst to want to learn more, to find the fish. I realize I’m not old, but when I’m out there I feel like a kid again. Maybe I associate it with all those great memories coming up.
  ‘‘I know I feel inside how important this has been to me, and my relationships with my family, and it gives me a tremendous amount of satisfaction to know my daughter is enjoying this now too.’’

A sea change
  Father and son have watched their world change dramatically over the past 20 years, most of that change unwanted. Members of the Gulf Coast Conservation Association, they are happy the commercial nets are mostly out of the water, but they regret the tension there is now between commercial and recreational fishers.
  ‘‘It used to be like one big family out there on the water,’’ Henry said. ‘‘Not anymore. I feel there’s room enough for everyone, but there were just too many of the netters who wouldn’t follow the law.’’
  More than anything, the Rockers are dismayed by the loss of marsh to coastal erosion. The Port Sulphur fishing area is on the eastern edge of the Barataria Bay estuary complex, a region that has suffered one of the highest rates of land loss along the coast.
  ‘‘There are whole places that have been washed away,’’ Henry said with a shake of his head. ‘‘I mean, it’s hard to even imagine how much has been destroyed. So many places I used to fish aren’t there anymore. Some of the islands where we used to camp at night are just gone.
  ‘‘We go out fishing and we talk about how this used to be such and such a place, but all you see now is open water.
  ‘‘I don’t know what’s going to happen.’’
  Chip has some ideas, and they make him uncomfortable. ‘‘I know the state and feds are trying different things with freshwater diversions and all, but if you’re out here as much as I am and see it falling apart before your eyes, it’s hard to be optimistic,’’ he said.
  Like his father, Chip thinks of the marsh as a friend of the family.
  ‘‘There are so many wonderful memories,’’ he said. ‘‘Just last summer Kailey and I camped out on the island below Bay Long, the same island my dad took me camping on so many times.
  ‘‘We lay there on our sleeping bags looking up at the night sky and Kailey was just amazed at how many stars there were. She stayed up all night counting shooting stars — never did go to sleep.
  ‘‘That’s something money can’t buy. That’s the kind of memory that makes this marsh feel so important. I guess that’s why I feel so happy when I come out here.’’
  Henry smiles at the story, and remembers other fishing trips to that island.
  ‘‘You know, I’ve been involved in a lot of things in my life, but eventually I lose interest and move on to something else,’’ he said. ‘‘Not fishing. I’m still doing basically the same thing I’ve been doing since I was a kid, and that’s really amazing.
  ‘‘My wife asked me when I’m going to stop fishing. Well, I think I know: I’ll stop fishing when I die.’’