The Island of Desire by Robert Dean Frisbie

The life and sparkle are blown out of everything, from the living creatures to the soil itself. The palm fronds droop; the creeping things move sluggishly over the land; the sun seems pale and cold; the sea birds squat, disconsolate, on the piles of rubbish and the branches of fallen trees. The life has been blown out of even the tough nonu saplings: they break off at a touch. All the jungle is gone; now white coral sand reflects a lusterless glare. There are three barren sand cays where Anchorage Island once flung its living green against the sky.

We are demoralized. We grope about the wreckage with mouths agape, eyes inflamed, tongues muttering all but senseless jabber. Our hands and feet are swollen; the least scratch pains and festers. Jakey's lacerated arm is puffed and swollen; Elaine coughs continually; Pratt has stabbing pains in his side, where one of his ribs is broken. The terror of our experience, which we were too excited to feel during the hurricane, is haunting us now. We never speak of the storm, but we dream of it. After a long nightmare of surging seas and yelling wind I waken with a feeling of relief. Perhaps the dream is Nature's way of relieving terror.