This was clearly not part of the plan.

The plan had been for a surprise birthday trip to a tropical paradise. We arrived with high hopes of sunny days lazing by the pool with our three-year-old, reef cruises and plenty of beach action. Cyclones named Debbie weren't part of the equation.

But the explanation was worded reassuringly enough that we didn't turn tail and flee. "There is every possibility that a pending cyclone will turn away and cause us no concern at all," it said, before explaining that all buildings on the island were designed to withstand cyclones. "We shall keep you advised of any further developments."

So it was with a sense of sheepish over-preparedness that we stocked up supplies of bottled water and a few days of easy meals that evening.

On Sunday morning, though, it didn't seem so foolish. Flights and ferries to and from the island were cancelled and the queue at the only supermarket stretched down the street. Even if we'd wanted to leave, it was no longer an option.

By this stage the weather was grey, hot and windy, with frequent brief downpours. Debbie was Category 2, expected to grow to Cat 4, but predicted to make landfall some way north. A different friendly young man came to the door of our apartment to help us move heavy furniture off the balcony, and told us the island would be locked down from 6pm on Monday.

Through Monday, winds built as staff worked feverishly to prepare. Anything that could be tied was, boats were lashed and restaurants shovelled out early dinners before the lockdown. The mood was calm, but tension was palpable. Everywhere you went, everyone was talking about Debbie.

So it was an early and nervous bedtime, and a loud and early awakening when the first real gusts of what was by then a full Cat 4 cyclone ripped into the island sometime after midnight.

You hear a lot about the noise of a cyclone, but none of it captures the demonic force of that sound. It's like a living thing trying to get in, screaming, sobbing, roaring and banging on walls, doors and windows.

Thankfully, none of this made any impression on our child, who slept peacefully even when the glass louvres started grinding and pieces of aluminium frame began to pop out of the windows. But the windows held, perhaps because the wind swung around to fling itself full-bore at the other side of the building.

By first light the rain was coming in brutal horizontal sheets directly at our glass doors. We could see palms being shredded and trees uprooted. The noise, improbably, had got worse - at times it was like being in the path of a train, at others under a massive waterfall.

At this point, it felt as if Debbie had decided to stop and camp out on the island. Just after the airport recorded a wind gust of 263km/h, phones went out, so we could no longer track the storm on the Bureau of Meteorology, or let family know what was happening. Mercifully, power held out, and it became a matter of waiting it out.

Sometime in the late afternoon the wind started to drop, and by Wednesday morning it was safe to emerge. It was a very different landscape to the tropical haven we'd arrived on. It turned out our building was in one of the more sheltered areas, but others had windows smashed and chunks of cladding ripped off. Fences were down or twisted out of shape. Roads were choked with debris and pools of water. The palms were matchsticks and most other trees naked of leaves.

The Reef View Hotel down the road had chunks torn from its lobby, but still opened for a free breakfast, with staff handing out takeaway tubs. Workmen were already in full swing, with huge teams of island employees out in force to clear the roads.

What was striking, though, was how little the built environment had suffered. The island had mostly endured Debbie's fury and protected the residents and tourists from an astonishing display of nature's power. And one day, we'd like to meet the architect of our building and shake their hand.