We forget how many new people have moved here since then. How many people weren't even born way back then.

But at cocktail parties and football games, when talk turns to storms that lurk out in the Atlantic, Hugo survivors catch a knowingness in each other's eyes.

Although fleeting, it speaks of a hollow, helpless time in our lives. Those days, weeks and months when we lived precariously close to the most dangerous edges of our own personalities.

Though 15 years have passed since that fateful night, memories rush forward like the storm surge that changed us. Because we all share the same scars. We fought the same battle.

Fact of the matter is while others fear the storm itself, we do not. Collectively we know that it's not the hurricane, but the aftermath that slowly kills your soul.

Having your world turned inside out and scattered across the landscape is only half of it. What comes next is the testing of human limits. And while it can be a beautiful thing, it can also turn ugly in an instant.

What we learned about ourselves and others still lingers in our genetic makeup. Such lessons are not easily dismissed.

Thus we get this knot in our gut every time a tropical depression rolls off the coast of Africa, churning toward no good end on our side of the sea. Who gets to deal with it when it matures into a monster is simply a matter of luck. Bad luck.

For we know now what we did not know then. Our lives were neatly cleaved along a distinct time line when Hugo came and went. There was before and there is after. There is no in between.

THIRD-WORLD EXISTENCE

What we learned when that Category 4 storm destroyed our coastline and our trees and our homes and our hopes was exactly how fragile we are. How quickly and completely this act of nature reduced our high-functioning society to rubble.

In a matter of hours we descended into a third-world existence, without water or lights or transportation or the power to do anything about it.

Only those who lived here in another century have seen Charleston in this condition. On her knees, bleeding, begging.

Walking down Broad Street as dawn slowly revealed the carnage, I could smell the pain that was coming. It smelled like spoiled food and wet cardboard and sweat and anguish.

Later that day, on the barrier islands, I stumbled through the wreckage looking for signs of life where the sea had wiped the slate clean.

Like millions of our beloved trees, the tender roots of our lives had been ripped up and exposed. We were left standing amid the debris, owning no more than what we had on our backs, and in our hearts.

It was bad enough to be humbled. We quickly learned to do without. We reached out to those around us. Neighbors we really didn't know that well. Strangers no more.

What we witnessed for months after the storm will always be a part of us.

SOUNDS AND SMELLS

Indeed, Hugo survivors have many things in common. Flashbacks. Stories. Nightmares.

The drone of generators running in the night. The sound of chainsaws chewing through fallen debris. The smell of charcoal grills in the evening. The glow of candles on picnic tables. The unexpected peace and quiet that envelops a world without television and air conditioning.

During this down time, we talked to each other. Something we hadn't done in a while. We complained a lot. But we also thanked God and each other for small blessings. A bag of ice. A hot meal. A shower. A running toilet.

Sometimes you just stared off into the distance, unable to cope. Even the brave and the strong occasionally found quiet places to cry. It seemed the only relief.

But slowly, so slowly, our world came back together. Hammer and nails. Roofers from hell. Insurance scams. Angels of mercy.

Every day brought new challenges, but inched us that much closer to normal. Though we knew normal would never be the same.

These days, when we cast our eyes to the tropics and watch these scary images crawling across the ocean, those who were not here can afford to have a cavalier attitude about hurricanes.

Those who were here just look at each other, exchange a knowing glance, and pray.

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