On Tuesday, Oct. 4, 1995, I was sitting in a staff meeting listening to the disaster plan should Hurricane Opal come our way.

I remember that day for two reasons. O.J. Simpson had just been found innocent of murder and Opal was in the southwest Gulf of Mexico, a trifling 90 mph storm predicted to move northeast and strike the north-central Gulf Coast sometime Thursday.

I remember the wrongness of it all - the wrongness of the verdict and the wrongness of the forecast. Surely after everything that had happened with Simpson a rational jury would convict. Hadn't he tried to flee before a national television audience? And how could the National Hurricane Center believe Opal would dither in the gulf until Thursday when a vigorous cold front was approaching. Hadn't previous experience suggested cold fronts act as siphons, pulling tropical weather systems along their boundaries at high rates of speed?

On the way back to the newsroom I told the editor I thought Opal would arrive much sooner - as of Wednesday. He expressed surprise. That wasn't in the forecast. And of course I'm not a weather forecaster. Still, I'd seen it before, most notably with Eloise in '75. I was sure the storm would strike the next day.

I don't remember what I did that night but I remember being awakened at 5:30 Wednesday morning by the telephone. It was one of my feature writers, whose voice sounded thin as cellophane. Opal had intensified rapidly during the night and was racing for the Northwest Florida coast with winds of 135 mph. She wanted to evacuate - could she please evacuate?

Now now, I laughed. Let me take a look at the forecast and I'll call you back.

I turned on the TV and dialed in The Weather Channel. There sat TWC's septuagenarian hurricane expert, John Hope, who gravely confirmed everything my feature writer had told me. In fact the news was worse - Opal could further strengthen before moving onshore.

I called her back and said yes, she could evacuate. "OK thanks 'bye" she blurted. No comma stops in that declaration. I imagine 30 seconds later her car was screeching out of the driveway.

Then I called my parents. They live close to the water and Mom has no love of hurricanes. I knew they'd want to evacuate. The sound of a phone ringing early in the morning can bring nothing but bad news but they took my storm warning in stride. The day would mean a long drive to Huntsville, Ala., where they'd rent a hotel room and watch it unfold on TV. At least they wouldn't be here, where I'd worry about them.

I showered, shaved and drove to work. It was a dark, gloomy morning, but traffic was light and I made the trip quickly. I worried a little about my cats back at the townhouse. Would they be OK if I had to remain at the office during the storm?

The time was 6:30 a.m.

When I got to work few people were about. I called the editor and roused him from bed. He called the publisher. We'd have a meeting at 7:30. The telephones were ringing like crazy, people wanting to know what was going on and old coworkers who had moved on to other locales calling to ask if we were OK. Well, no, we weren't OK. We were about to be clobbered by a category 3 hurricane. That's never OK.

The editor and publisher showed up. We met. We discussed options - publishing a special edition before the storm, or another special edition after the storm. I noticed - archly - that none of my fellow editors had come in.

Then, one of our columnists burst through the newsroom door and shouted, "The winds are up to 150 mph and it could become a category 5!"

I could think of nothing else to say except, "You're lying."

"No! I'm not! Check The Weather Channel!"

We turned the TV to The Weather Channel and sure enough, there sat John Hope announcing Opal had continued its rapid intensification and was now a category 4 storm with winds of 150 mph. Further intensification was possible and Opal could become a category 5 storm as it struck the Florida Panhandle later that afternoon.

My stomach turned to mush. Category 5. What would that do to our community?

At that point the publisher made his decision. We would not publish a Thursday edition. Most of the staff had left - not just the reporters but the press crew, mailroom employees and carriers too. Even if we could produce a special section, nobody would be available to print it or distribute it. And who would be available to read it? He urged everybody to evacuate. We were told we could shelter at the building or go to our homes. God help us.

About 8 a.m. I left the newspaper. I knew better than to shelter there. I would be up all night with no sleep. When the real work was needed, the next day, I'd be in horrible shape to do it. I decided to go home, ride out the storm with my cats, and report to work the next morning.

I drove to the main thoroughfare through town. All three lanes heading north were jammed bumper-to-bumper with cars moving at about 3 mph. All three lanes heading south were empty. I think that was the moment I became most scared - as I turned right and began heading south, the lone car on the road. It was as if the people in those cars heading north knew something I didn't. I felt utterly and terribly alone.

I had to drive to the southernmost intersection of town to find a place where I could cross to the other side of the road. I took back streets until I found myself sitting in my parents' driveway. Their car was gone and the house locked up. I became even more frightened. I was truly on my own.

I drove to my townhouse. There, everything seemed normal. The lights were on, the AC running and my cats were nonchalantly curious as to why I was interrupting their solitude on a work day. I vacuumed the house, made a pot of coffee and for the first time ever, filled up a five-gallon jug with drinking water.

Throughout the morning vicious rain bands rolled onshore dumping copious amounts of water. At one point the parking lot where I live began to flood. I knew from previous experience the storm drain gutter must be plugged up - it traps leaves and debris preventing the rain from draining. So I donned my wet shoes, grabbed a plastic bag and went outside to clean out the drain. It needed to be done. If not I might have a foot of stormwater sloshing around in the townhouse.

As I stuffed handsfulls of leaves into the bag a Jeep Grand Cherokee plowed through a lake in the road, sending a tsunami of foul stormwater crashing over me. I stopped, gazed balefully at the Jeep and shook my fist. The Jeep driver had stopped, but having thought escape was the better part of valor he drove off, leaving me standing there soaking wet.

Luckily the parking lot emptied once I got the storm drain cleaned out and I was able to return home and take the last hot shower I'd enjoy for the next four days. Then, perversely, the battery in my TV remote went dead. You wouldn't think a dead remote battery would be a major concern with a category 4 storm approaching but to me it was a crisis - I needed a new battery. Otherwise I'd have to get off the couch and manually change the channel. Horrors!

I live across the street from a major shopping center - one with a Radio Shack - so I decided to stroll over there and buy a new battery.

Surprise. All the stores were closed.

That's when the enormity of the impending disaster struck me - when I couldn't buy a stupid battery for my TV remote.

This is the end of Part 1 of this narrative. I will post Part 2 later.