“Surreal” is the only word I can find to most accuratelydescribe the whole experience of Hurricane Sandy. Yet it seemsinappropriate somehow. Glib, even. But it's anything but that.

How else can you describe your reaction to seeing hundreds ofhomes destroyed in your hometown? The gut-wrenching feeling ofknowing 14 people in Staten Island alone have died in what most ofus thought would surely be just another “boy cries wolf” weatherevent hyped by the media? The harrowing sight of so many of yourfriends and neighbors' dazed looks as they assess their damage,some having lost everything?

It's Sunday, Oct. 28, and I learn that NU's Hoboken,N.J., office is already closed as Sandy makes her advance. As Iwork from home on Monday—my 2-year-old son and my dog competing formy attention the entire time—you can almost feel theapproaching havoc in the hairs on the back of your neck, theinevitable coming wave as the disconcertingly light rains begin toswirl.

It's too late now, there's nowhere to run. All we can do is keepour flashlights handy and strap in for the ride. Hopefully, this'llbe like Irene, or my divorce: Noisy, destructive, but overrelatively quickly.

By Monday evening, it's obvious we've all underestimated Sandy'sstrength. The winds have picked up, and are getting louder. I'mgiving my son a bath and the lights finally wink out at 7:20 p.m.Minutes later, my aunt who lives downstairs knocks on my apartmentdoor, walks in and straps a small search light on my head so I canfinish the job. My son finds this wonderfully entertaining.

A few stories by candlelight later and my boy is asleep. On myiPhone I learn from Facebook that I'm not the only one withoutpower in my borough, and my South Jersey friends are alreadyfeeling the brunt of Sandy's wrath. One, a policewoman inCollingswood, N.J., has been called in, and is happy to earn theextra cash. More bad news: Atlantic City is already under water forblocks. The entire Jersey Shore is FUBAR, a colleague texts.

As the winds grow ever louder, the transformer explosionsbegin—but for the most part, you can't hear them. Bright flashesthat you know aren't lightning. One that can't be more than a blockaway, bright as a searchlight. But that one, I hear loud &clear.

At that point I realize that never in my life have I felt thepowerful instinct that says GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THE WINDOW, NOW.And I listen to it.

The texts begin from my ex-wife who's determined to stay at ourhouse, which sits on a picturesque wooded street that quickly turnssinister in foul weather. Tall beautiful Sycamore trees are allwell & good until you realize one could fall and smash intoyour home.

And tonight, fall they do.

I hear from her that the power is gone there too, and the treesin our yard are beginning to split from the force of the wind. Onehas already crashed into the pool. She texts me that she's goingoutside in the dark to investigate.

“Stay in the goddamn house!!!” I text her. I can't get a callthrough.

Ten minutes later I hear back. There's more damage than shethought: Several trees are down. One's on our neighbor's garage.But none have hit our house—yet. The wind is still loud asHell.

Another hour of darkness, wind and sirens, and my phone'sbattery is dying. People are signing off on Facebook, and afterlearning a good friend and his parents had to be evacuated fromtheir home as the flood waters rose, I decide to follow suit.

I move my son into bed, blow out the one candle I still have litand finally call it a night, thanking the Lord for safe, warmshelter. The last image I see before nodding off is an image postedon Facebook by an old co-worker of Manhattan Island, dark as Death.The Empire State Building and the WTC Memorial provide the sole twopoints of light.

Dawn.

It's 8:30 a.m. Tuesday and eerily quiet outside as I head to myhouse to survey the damage. A short drive later the destructionbecomes painfully stark. Downed trees and power lines litter thestreets everywhere you look, and not a single business is open.There's no cell service.

People are starting to venture out, shell-shocked. Sections of afew major roads like Hylan Boulevard are completely under water. Ihave to turn back around several times, as trees block my path. Atmy house, at least four trees are either split into pieces ordowned completely. Word spreads that all of the beachcommunities—of which there are many on Staten Island—were swallowedby the rising waters.

Later that day, long, tense lines will start to form to buygasoline to power both generators and cars.

Still, I can't begin to complain. I know our damage is far fromthe worst in my community. I'm already hearing that people havedied, a toll that will surely rise in the coming days. I'm safe, myfamily is safe, and at least the trees didn't smash into the house.Even the cat is OK. I have a lot to be thankful for. And I'vediscovered still have some sense of humor left.

“Bring your pretty face to my axe!!” I shout to no one inparticular, echoing the dwarf Gimli from “The Lord of the Rings” asI take my first swings at the fallen trees in my yard. It's a messof twisted branches and splintered wreckage. My ex laughs, thefirst trace of a smile I've seen on her since I showedup.

The slow, painful road to recovery has begun.

POSTSCRIPT: As I detail in NU'sOctober cover story, life in Staten Island today remainsgrim for many of those whose homes and other property were claimedby Superstorm Sandy. All told, 24 people died in my hometown fromthe storm surge, some of them people who opted to stay in theirhomes and ride out the storm—and in so doing, perished. Many ofthem were seniors; two of them were children, literally torn by thesurge from their mother as the waters claimed theirneighborhood.

The recovery effort continues. Only a small fraction of thebusinesses that bore Sandy's wrath the most have reopened; may didnot have flood or business interruption cover, and simply don'thave the money to do so. My own claim was handled thoroughly andfairly quickly; and while that was the case for many of us withrelatively minor damage, many more whose homes were wiped out inareas such as South Beach, Oakwood beach and Midland Beach arestill trying to rebuild a year later. A state buyout of many ofthose devastated homes will help many residents, but the “forgottenborough” is a long, long way from being back to business asusual.