"It was complete devastation," Nanci said. "It took your breath away. You couldn't believe that it was real."

Boats were smashed into houses. Staircases out in the open led upward to nowhere. A bathtub and shower stood out in a field. Blankets, clothing and even a rocking chair clung to the treetops. Billboard after billboard was ripped to shreds.

A strong stench filled the air. Rubble was piled along the roadway, sometimes 30 feet high. Nanci learned later that in those piles of rubble were bodies yet to be collected.

Nanci, her husband Alan, her brother Kelly Gorham and two of Gorham's co-workers were driving their RV and trailer to an elementary school in Biloxi where a base camp had been set up for rescue and relief workers.

The tidal surge from Hurricane Katrina had wreaked havoc on the cities of Biloxi and Gulfport. Casino barges that had been the mainstay of the local economy had been picked up off their moorings and swept up the beach where they smashed into hotels, businesses and homes. Bridges had collapsed. Whole neighborhoods had been washed away.

Nanci and her crew had collected food and supplies in an effort called The Bay Area Chef Relief Program and had left Saratoga for the Gulf Coast during the early hours of Sept. 14.

The long drive took its toll on their RV, which suffered mechanical problems, but they managed to limp into Biloxi with a police escort three days after their departure.

Upon arrival at the base camp, Nanci and her crew swung into action, joining a cooking crew already on duty. Local government workers had stocked an improvised commissary in the gymnasium and were manning a kitchen in the school cafeteria. But most of the workers had no experience preparing meals, and many had lost homes and loved ones to the storm.

The Wokas team got to work sanitizing the kitchen and unpacking supplies. Then they started cooking.

Some of the locals did not warm up to them at first. Nanci and her husband described a feeling of resentment that was in the air. A slow government response and a lack of interest taken by the national media for the plight of the people of Mississippi had made some of them wary of outsiders. But it became apparent that Wokas and her crew had no agenda other than to pitch in and cook some good meals. Some took to calling Nanci their angel from California.

"It was open arms," Nanci said. "I'd say Southern hospitality is truly what they say it is."

Alan described how he had been disappointed with the lack of government help.

"The means and ability were there but it wasn't being deployed," he said.

For many people in Mississippi, the Federal Emergency Management Agency had become a four-letter word, he said. Red tape and bureaucracy were getting in the way of immediate needs. Bartering, volunteers and tireless local officials were providing for people who had sometimes gone four to five days without food and shelter. Some locals were afraid to leave their homes out of fear they would be bulldozed.

But for Alan, the way the people of Biloxi were overcoming one of America's worst disasters was inspiring.

"The spirit of the people was quite amazing," he said.

One person in particular who had earned the respect of both Alan and Nanci was Biloxi police officer Sgt. Eddie Irwin.

"I can't imagine how many lives he saved," Alan said.

They described Irwin, with his Southern drawl and manner, as an energetic force working to bring his city back from destruction. Irwin navigated the challenges of a disaster zone and the frustrations of bureaucratic hurdles to get help to people who needed it. It was Irwin who had secured a travel clearance and a location for Wokas and her crew.

For three days and nights, the Wokas crew cooked everything from bacon and eggs to steaks for between 500 to 700 firefighters, police officers, medics, military personnel and relief workers.

The Wokas crew started at dawn and worked late into the night. They slept under armed guard in their RV and showered in a fire station. They worked through heat, humidity, insects and a lack of basic comforts.

"There were days that I was just shaking," Nanci said.

At one point she had to visit a medic tent due to dehydration.

"But we were so busy you couldn't think about it," she said. "You just did the work."

Nanci said 25 Biloxi firefighters were made homeless by Katrina, but they still showed up for work every day. Thirty-two members of the police department had lost either homes or loved ones but were still doing their jobs.

At one point during their stay, police officer Mitch Roberts had taken Nanci, Alan and Kelly into Biloxi in a patrol car. Construction workers ran out to their vehicle and told them an alligator had been washed out of the bayou onto the beach.

"You guys want to see a gator?" Roberts said.

He then captured the 4-foot gator, holding it by the back of its head. Since he couldn't drive while holding an alligator, he had Nanci raise her right hand and he deputized her on the spot. As her brother Kelly held the gator's tail in the back seat, Nanci drove the patrol car to a canal where Roberts released it into fresh water.

Everywhere throughout Biloxi, they saw waterlines marking flooding from Hurricane Camille, which had devastated the region in 1969. The waterline from Katrina had surpassed that of Camille, which even after 40 years was still part of local lore.

After three days of cooking, cleaning and organizing the kitchen and commissary, the Wokas crew was set to head out. Biloxi was preparing for the worst as Hurricane Rita gained strength in the Gulf. For their own safety, Irwin wanted them back home.

On Sept. 20, Alan and Nanci arrived at their house on Aloha Avenue. Neighbors, friends and family hung a banner on the garage and had gathered to welcome them home.

Although back in Saratoga, their fundraising effort continues. They hope to continue sending food and supplies to their new friends on the Gulf Coast, hard at work rebuilding their communities and lives.

Nanci and her team have faith that the Gulf Coast will be rebuilt. As signs they saw hanging on damaged homes attested, "The South will rise again."

To donate to The Bay Area Chef Relief Program, call 408.314.5065.