When I relocated my family in 1970 from our comfortable suburban home a few miles southeast of Trenton, NJ to the idyllic woodlands of Hunterdon County twenty-five miles north of Trenton, I thought I was doing the right thing: building a new, larger house on five acres of wooded land next to a shallow, rippling trout stream.

The Delaware Township officials in Hunterdon County warned me I’d have to sign a waiver releasing them of all responsibility should the property ever get flooded by the adjacent creek. Our five acres were spread along the creek’s expansive flood plain. But nothing bad was ever going to happen to my family while I was in control. So I signed the waiver and moved on boldly toward building our dream house next to that picturesque stream surrounded by beautiful cedar, oak, birch, and maple trees. I felt like an American pioneer of yesteryear.

My wife tried to warn me. She was wary of the low-lying ground and preferred the 5-acre lots in the development tract that were higher and farther from the creek. But Mr. Sure-of-Himself insisted the cedar trees near the water were a scenic asset.

Hey, nothing was going to keep me from my goal of secluded and independent residential privacy. A “What, me worry?” attitude became my mantra. “I don’t sweat the small things in life,” I said to anybody who was polite enough to listen.

After we moved with the two children and family dog into our dream house, a friend visited and suggested we build a four-foot-high crescent-shaped berm facing the creek side. It was an astute suggestion, the water being only about 75 feet from our dwelling.

I sloughed off the idea. What did he know? Besides, it sounded like too much work and trouble, piling dirt, tree trunks and rocks for a length of roughly 400 feet to be effective. And where would I get all that dirt and rock? I wasn’t going to pay somebody to truck it in, since I had emptied my bank account for the down payment to buy the land and build the house. Besides, it would look unnatural.

How long did it take to have my dream turn into a nightmare? Back-to-back hurricanes swept into New Jersey off the Atlantic Ocean in August, 1971, saturating the ground and swelling the streams and rivers over their banks, inundating the surrounding lands. All the low-lying properties got drowned. Our harmless, narrow creek became a torrent of whitewater overflowing and a spreading menace, engulfing every square inch around us.

It happened at night, which made it worse. We didn’t have time to get the cars to higher ground, though we did manage to get our furniture out of the den and up to the living room of our split-level house. I had to wade through the rising water in our basement to shut off the electric power switches before the water rose to eye level and before I got electrocuted.

Thankfully, the water came in fast, filling our basement and reaching a foot-plus deep in our den, adjacent garage, lavatory and laundry room, then leaving completely a few hours later. It didn’t linger for days, like some bigger river floods do.

My neighbors helped us clean up the mess and restore the washer, dryer, oil-fired furnace, and our cars to working condition again. I was touched that they helped without our asking.

What did I learn from our personal catastrophe? We are not in charge on this planet. My arrogance came back at me hard and my self-confidence took a beating that night and the following day when I could survey the damage better. It was a humbling experience, revealing how helpless we humans really are when up against the forces of nature.

I learned that “no man is an island.” The experience helped me to become more appreciative and accepting of others and to realize that we need one another on this earth simply to survive.