Kevin Voisin, center, of Motavatit Seafoods in Houma, La., looks over his oyster processing line Monday. Voisin is in the eighth generation of family oyster processors.

Houma, La. ? As survival stories go, the Voisins have a gem: It goes back more than 200 years ago when the first members of their family to set foot on Louisiana soil weathered a monster storm in spectacular fashion, clinging to their porch while others were washed away.

It was the first test for the Voisins in Louisiana.

It would not be their last.

Over two centuries, there’d be more travails for the family. One generation, then another, slogged through mosquito-thick marshes and navigated around alligator-infested swamps as they fished, trapped, harvested and, in recent decades, processed oysters on the Gulf Coast. They thrived when times were good, struggled when they were not, understanding that’s part of the bargain when your livelihood revolves around the water.

But 250 years or so after the first settlers in the family arrived from Libourne, France, the Voisins are still here.

The reasons are many, but Kevin Voisin, an eight-generation oysterman, prefers to keep it simple:

“We just got stuck in the mud,” he says, “and we don’t want to leave.”

‘We’ve survived’

Now the Voisins face a new test of their mettle dealing with the aftermath of the Gulf spill that spewed oil into the fish-rich waters for nearly three months, squeezing the state’s $2.4 billion seafood industry — and the family’s oyster business.

It’s too early to tally the losses, but Voisin, vice president of marketing at Motavatit Seafood, is counting on one thing to keep them afloat: the family’s long record of tenacity.

“We survived Katrina, we survived Gustav,” he says of two recent giant hurricanes. “We’ve survived a lot of other things, too. It started way back with Jean Voisin hanging on to a house when most everybody around him died. I hope we’ll make it. I think if anybody does, it’ll be us.”

The Voisins (vwah’-sans) are the lucky ones, so far. Their oyster harvesting and processing company — which produced 25 million pounds of the shellfish last year — lost 40 to 60 percent of its business during the spill. If that sounds grim, consider this: They’re in far better shape than their competitors, many of whom were forced to close.

“There’s no explanation for why we’re standing and so many have fallen,” he says. “I don’t feel guilty because the battle is still raging.”

The temporary fix — the July 15 capping of the well after tens millions of gallons of oil oozed into the Gulf — was a relief for Voisin, but no finale, by any stretch. Many oyster fishing grounds remain closed, some of the shellfish are dead, folks are out of work, and the future is uncertain, as is the destination of all that brown oily goo coating the waters.

“There are just millions of gallons of oil out there and until it’s all gone, I won’t feel better,” he says. “We know all the oil has to come ashore. We don’t know what the next step is. Is it inevitable? At this point, I think it is but who knows?”

Kevin Voisin has become the public face of the family business since the spill.

He’s been interviewed in French by media from France and Canada and is on YouTube, talking about the disaster in English and French. He’s been approached about a possible reality TV show (“The Oystermen”?) and started a charity group that he says has received about $60,000 in commitments for those hurt by the spill; he’s already helped a handful of people, including one worker laid off when a rival oyster company had to shut down.

His group also has come up with a novel fundraising plan. It’s selling oil-tainted water in fancy bottles for an eye-popping $1,000 each. (Voisin says he has shipped about 10 bottles; smaller vials sell for $25.)

Voisin, 34, is part salesman, part student of history (he spices his conversation with references to Teddy Roosevelt and abolitionist Frederick Douglass). He’s part spiritual seeker (he was a Mormon missionary in Bordeaux, France) and part pragmatic politician (he’s on the Terrebonne parish council). And Voisin is a full-time Cajun who lives, breathes, loves, eats and talks oysters — he’s lectured about them on five continents.

Now as he watches his industry struggle, his lament is a familiar one. He is angry with BP, frustrated with the federal government and anxious about what lies ahead.

“I don’t think much of the nation understands — they think this is about money and jobs,” he says. “But it’s beyond that. It’s about life. It’s about who we are. … The Cajun way of life is fiercely independent — ‘I’m going to take care of myself, you take care of yourself.’ … Why? Because we live in a place with the most glorious abundance of food. … We’ve always been able to turn to our surroundings to support us. Now our surroundings are threatening us because of the oil.”

Damage done

Not that anyone is going hungry. But the spill has put a crimp in the fishing industry in a state that ranks first in the nation in producing shrimp, blue crab, crawfish and oysters, which are a $318-million-a year business in Louisiana.

Only about a third of the shrimp, 20 percent of the crab and 20 to 30 percent of the oysters are being harvested, according to Ewell Smith, director of the Louisiana Seafood Promotion and Marketing Board.

The spill isn’t just a financial drain, though; it’s a public relations black eye for the fishermen.

Those 85 days of video and photos — the billowing stream of oil, the tar balls on beaches, the dead turtles — have created a false impression for many Americans that the Gulf is closed and seafood isn’t safe, Smith says.

“The damage has been done and it continues,” he says. “That image has been burned in people’s minds. It’s going to take five years to turn the perception around. How long are our fisherman and processors going to be hanging on while we rebuild?”