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Sweat ran in a river down my back as I surveyed the scene through my camera lens.

I snapped photos of a house that had been lifted off its foundation and smashed into the roadway behind what used to be sand dunes. On the beach, there were various items scattered about: shingles, splintered boards, pieces of wood with pink insulation attaches, the drum from inside a washing machine.

Families worked to clean up the mess and salvage what they could. I continued to document the scene, my camera clicking away as I stayed out of the way of heavy machinery and those busy working.

One man in particular wasn�г��ٸ���Ƶ�t too happy to see me taking pictures and began yelling at me and brandishing his rake. Thankfully, my police escort jumped in and worked to diffuse the situation, explaining that as a member of the media, I had a right to be there.

Thankfully, I had what I needed, and we soon left. As the officer steered his vehicle down the beach at Oak Island, I stared out the window feeling guilty and ashamed of myself.

That was my first experience documenting a hurricane. The year was 1999, and Hurricane Floyd had left its mark on the area. Just 19 years old, I was still in school and had gotten my first job at a newspaper in Statesville. While I had come down to the beach on personal business �г��ٸ���Ƶ� to help my parents survey the damage at their home on Oak Island (thankfully, there was none) �г��ٸ���Ƶ� I saw an opportunity to use my newly-issued press pass and get what I hoped would be my first big scoop.

When I returned home the next week, my editor was impressed at the quality of the photos �г��ٸ���Ƶ� and my nerve �г��ٸ���Ƶ� and decided to run a few of them with a news release about a group from Iredell County, coming down to assist folks in the area with storm clean up. While I was happy to see my photos in print, my mind kept replaying the scene of when the man yelled at me.

�г��ٸ���Ƶ�Why are you out here taking pictures of our misery!�г��ٸ���Ƶ� he�г��ٸ���Ƶ�d yelled.

As a young journalist, the event turned out to be an important lesson: In every natural disaster, there are people experiencing heartbreak and loss.

About two years later, I left Statesville for Oak Island, I�г��ٸ���Ƶ�ve been here ever since. For most of that time, I�г��ٸ���Ƶ�ve worked as a reporter, and I�г��ٸ���Ƶ�ve covered several storms and hurricanes. Most were, thankfully, not as bad as Hurricane Floyd, but each storm leaves its mark on those who live through it. �г��ٸ���Ƶ

In 2018, I experienced a storm that rivaled Floyd: Hurricane Florence. On Sept. 10, Florence was a category 4 monster, and many heeded the warnings and left days ahead of the storm. At the time, my husband was serving his first term as an alderman in Southport, and I worked for the town�г��ٸ���Ƶ�s newspaper. We decided that our family �г��ٸ���Ƶ� the two of us and our 10-year-old son �г��ٸ���Ƶ� would stay and ride out the storm.

The storm weakened significantly as it approached, ultimately making landfall on Sept. 14 near Wrightsville Beach as a category 1 hurricane. While we had experience category 1 storms before, Florence was not typical. The massive and slow-moving storm pounded the Wilmington area with strong winds and heavy rains for two days.

At the time, my husband and I had only been homeowners for three months, and like so many others, we did our best to protect our home. But nearly 30 inches of rain fell, and at high tide, the tidal creek behind our home had nowhere else to go. We waded through floodwaters salvaging what we could and disposing of what we couldn�г��ٸ���Ƶ�t. As we worked, people drove by taking photos and videos as the creek flowed into our house, and suddenly, I was transported back to September 1999.

While there will never be another Floyd or Florence (those names have since been retired by the National Hurricane Center), those of us who call the Wilmington area home know the next storm is always around the corner. As journalists, we take our job of documenting each one seriously, and we understand that behind each story or photo, there�г��ٸ���Ƶ�s a person experiencing loss.

We understand it because we, too, have been there.

Renee Spencer is the community engagement editor for the StarNews. Reach her at rspencer@gannett.com.