A year ago we were holed up in what everyone described as Galveston's safest spot, the sparkling San Luis hotel. The mayor had checked in as had every police officer and firefighter in the city. They were priority guests, assigned rooms on the lowest of the 16 floors to enable a quick departure once the elevators became useless. I was on 15.

There's no sleeping when you're in the path of a hurricane, even if it is the middle of the night. And there was nothing calming about the San Luis' subtle but alarming sway. "It's built to do this," a man assured a group gathered in the hallway. "I promise, you won't be one of my customers," he said with a smile, explaining he owned a Galveston funeral home. Back in my room, I could hear the sliding glass door, which faced the Gulf's open waters, bashed by the wind and writhing in its track. Water seeped in from the balcony and soaked the room's carpet. With cell towers long gone, there was no way to text my family or call NBC. The power had been out for hours, and it was dark and damp. 

I must have dozed off during the stillness of the storm's eye, because I next remember being jolted awake by what sounded like someone trying to force open the door. It turned out be a police officer banging his flashlight against it, calling for everyone to head the lobby. The storm's dirty side was on us. "If you're not going downstairs, write your social security number on your arm," he warned. That will get you down 15 flights in record time.

It's funny how vividly I remember this but can't recall dinner last night. So in Galveston this week, it wasn't surprising to hear detailed accounts from others who, for whatever reason, spent last September 12th riding out the storm. It's been a long road back for so many on the island, a year spent rebuilding homes and lives.

Video: Slow recovery marks Ike anniversary

Waves pound Galveston's seawall, 10 hours before Ike made landfall

Debris from the Gulf litters the seawall, the morning after the storm