Jenny Jarvie reports for the Los Angeles Times

This island will cease to exist. That much seems certain.

Over the last six decades, more than 98% of Isle de Jean Charles has vanished into the Gulf of Mexico, leaving a frail strip of land just two miles long and a quarter-mile wide.

With each high tide and with each hurricane, a little more of this historic Native American land sinks below the surface.

Cow pastures are gone. Rice fields are gone. The encroaching saltwater seeps into the roots of the towering live oaks that loom over the bayou, transforming them into eerie gray skeletons.

Only about 40 residents remain — down from a peak of more than 300 — and few take part in the old rituals: crabbing on the bayou, trapping muskrats and mink, afternoon coffee on the front porch.

As life on this narrow ridge of Louisiana’s coast becomes more precarious, the state is pressing ahead with an unprecedented national experiment: a $48-million plan to move the entire community out of harm’s way and build a new settlement in the hope of restoring its cultural traditions and old way of life.

Construction is scheduled to begin this year. But the prospect of rebuilding this sinking community seems increasingly unlikely as tribal leaders who spearheaded the effort have accused the state of hijacking their project and are now urging residents not to move.

“The plan was to reunite the tribe and now it’s going to be destroyed,” said Albert Naquin, the 72-year-old chief of the Isle de Jean Charles Band of Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw tribe, who was born on the island but left after a hurricane destroyed his home in 1974. “Everything went sour.”1.00Play Video

In any case, persuading the island’s last holdouts to leave will not be easy.

“It’s a paradise out here,” Edison Dardar, a 69-year-old fisherman, said as he tromped through his lush backyard in white rubber shrimp boots, stooping to pick up a chicken, survey his neat rows of green beans and admire the nascent fruit of his blackberry bush and persimmon tree.

“This here can’t be remade someplace,” Chris Brunet, 53, said as he looked out across the open land where his family used to grow okra and cantaloupe. “It’s just impossible. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, a setting away from the world.”

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In the beginning, the island wasn’t even an island.

When the first settler — a Frenchman named Jean Marie Naquin, who had been disowned by his family for marrying an American Indian — arrived in the early 1800s, it was a ridge covered in dense thickets of live oaks and surrounded by miles of swampy marshland.

He named it for his father, who traveled to this spot 50 miles southwest of New Orleans while working for the pirate Jean Lafitte.

Clockwise from top left: Edison Dardar lives almost entirely off the land and water; Chris Brunet has lived on the island his whole life; fisherman Hilton Chaisson resides on the island along with many relatives; and retired carpenter Johnny Tamplet still lives on the island, although he is not Native American. (Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)

The remote land was a refuge for the family throughout the mid-1800s — when Native Americans across the Southeast were forced from their land in a mass relocation that became known as the Trail of Tears. Over the years, Dardars, Chaissons and Billiots joined the Naquins, building simple mud homes with palmetto-thatched roofs on each side of the bayou that formed the main artery of the community.

People mostly kept to themselves, surviving off the land and sea, catching fish, oysters and shrimp, hunting rabbits and deer and raising cows, chickens and pigs.

Modern times did not come to Isle de Jean Charles until 1953, when a two-mile road was built across the marshland to connect the community to Pointe-aux-Chene on the mainland.

Many residents eyed the causeway with suspicion, fearing it would bring outsiders who would try to wrench them from the land.

“If you hear or see a car coming, go hide,” Naquin’s mother warned him.

As it turned out, there was a far greater threat: the vast network of flood-control dams and levees the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers was erecting along the Mississippi River.

The system disrupted the flow of sediment into the Mississippi River Delta, a natural process that counteracts the erosion of marshes and wetlands by the encroaching waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Making matters worse, the oil and gas industries were expanding in the delta, and the elaborate web of channels that companies carved through the wetlands for boats and drilling rigs also brought in saltwater that weakened plant roots and hastened erosion. Scientists say climate change will only exacerbate the problem by raising the sea level.

When Isle de Jean Charles became an island is a matter of debate, as the changing marshland around it made the edges difficult to define.

With less marshland buffering the island from waves and storm surge, hurricanes take an ever more devastating toll.

In the last two decades, the number of households has dwindled from about 80 to 20 as a succession of hurricanes — Lili, Katrina, Rita, Gustav, Ike, Isaac — slammed the island, filling homes with thick mud.

A ring of levees built more than a decade ago offers some protection from flooding, but the once-free-flowing bayou is now stagnant and strewn with tires, plastic foam take-out boxes and plastic chairs.

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The oyster shacks that once lined its banks have been torn down. The only business is a small marina selling bait, fishing lures and Michelob Ultra.

The remaining islanders are retired or work off the island as grocery store clerks and hospital janitors, commercial fishermen and tugboat captains.

Top, Chief Albert Naquin stands at the end of Island Road on the Isle of Jean Charles. Left, Naquin at the home of his sister Denecia Billiot, 94, on the island. Right, Naquin visits homebound residents. (Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)

“We don’t mingle like we used to,” said Al Naquin, 68, the chief’s cousin, as he stood on his porch and pointed out the shed that had replaced his grandfather’s grocery store — which also used to serve as a dance hall, church and school.

While a few islanders fish for flounder and trout or grow okra and green beans, others are just as likely to pick up hot dogs and frozen tilapia from a Walmart in Houma, 25 miles away.

Some of the older residents still converse in Cajun French, just like their parents and grandparents, but many of their grandchildren do not understand them.

Most days, residents remain indoors, listening to country music or watching TV.

“It feels like a ghost town,” Erica Billiot, 37, said as her 6-year-old son, Tristan, played on the edge of a broken wooden bridge over the bayou.

Initially, Billiot was excited about moving to higher ground.

Tristan Billiot, one of the last children remaining on the island, lives with his mother and grandmother. Many of his friends have moved away. (Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)

Whenever strong southern winds blow, she worries that high tides will flood the only road to the mainland, cutting her off from her job as a baggage handler at a local heliport and preventing the bus from ferrying Tristan to school.

But as she mulls the state plan and the thought of losing her family’s weathered clapboard home, she leans toward staying put a while longer.

“It’s going to go away before I pass,” she said. “It’s only a matter of time.”

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It was about 20 years ago when the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers first approached the chief with the idea of relocating islanders.

Naquin’s first thought: “Wow, a modern-day Trail of Tears!”

But as the barrel-chested Army veteran contemplated the island’s fate, he changed his mind.

Clockwise from top left: Dwayne Neil throws crab cages along the bayou between Isle de Jean Charles and Pointe-aux-Chene; a boarded-up home on the island; some of the island’s remaining residents; people from the mainland fish off the dock at the island marina. (Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)

Saving the island seemed like a lost cause. In 2002, the Corps decided to exclude the island from a massive 72-mile levee system it was planning, dooming it to a future underwater.

Naquin’s first two attempts to resettle the community failed, as the Corps required a unanimous buy-in, and a small group of residents did not want to leave.

“You can’t get 100% of people to agree on anything,” he said.

Naquin pressed on, working with nonprofits and the state to develop a plan for a community with homes on stilts, a bayou, grocer, tribal museum, green space for powwows and grazing land for buffalo.

“This here can’t be remade some place. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, a setting away from the world.”

Chris Brunet, a lifelong resident of Isle de Jean Charles

In his vision, the community would be not just a safe place for island residents but also a gathering point for the 600 members of his tribe now scattered across coastal Louisiana.

But soon after the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development dedicated $48 million to the project in 2016, a rival tribe, United Houma Nation, came forward with a complaint: It had been left out of the plan despite having historic ties to the island.

Interviewing islanders, state officials found that most, but not all, identified — at least loosely — with the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw. A few said they did not trust tribal leaders to execute a resettlement fairly.

That put Louisiana officials in an awkward position: Federal law does not allow housing projects to discriminate based on tribal affiliation or race.

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