Ever wonder why we brace for Hurricane Ian or remember the devastation of Hurricane Katrina, but never hear about Hurricane Kevin? The naming of these powerful, churning storms isn’t a random draw from a hat. It’s a carefully managed system steeped in history, practicality, and a fascinating dose of linguistic strategy, all orchestrated by the World Meteorological Organization (WMO).
A name transforms a storm from an abstract meteorological event into a distinct, tangible threat. It’s a crucial tool for communication, allowing meteorologists, emergency responders, and the public to talk about a specific storm with clarity and without confusion. But how we got to today’s orderly, rotating lists is a story of evolution, controversy, and cultural adaptation.
Before any formal system existed, hurricanes were often named in a rather haphazard way. In the West Indies, storms were frequently named after the saint’s day on which they made landfall. For instance, the two devastating hurricanes that struck Puerto Rico in 1899 and 1928 were both known as the “San Ciriaco” hurricane and the “San Felipe” hurricane, respectively.
Elsewhere, a storm might be named for the place it hit or a notable object it destroyed. This led to confusing and unwieldy names like the “Great Galveston Hurricane of 1900”. One of the earliest pioneers of a more systematic approach was the Australian meteorologist Clement Wragge at the end of the 19th century. He began naming cyclones, first using letters from the Greek alphabet, then figures from Greek and Roman mythology, and—most cheekily—the names of politicians he disliked.
The practice of using personal names gained traction during World War II. Meteorologists in the U.S. Army Air Forces and Navy, tasked with tracking storms in the Pacific, began informally naming them after their wives and girlfriends. This was a simple, memorable shorthand that proved effective.
In 1953, the United States National Hurricane Center formalized this practice, officially adopting a list of female names for Atlantic tropical storms. The linguistic reasoning was sound: short, familiar, and distinct names were far easier to communicate over radio and in print than cumbersome latitude-longitude identifiers or technical codes. A “Hurricane Alice” was much less likely to be misunderstood in a crackling broadcast than “Tropical Cyclone 3 at 15.7°N, 58.3°W”.
However, by the 1970s, this practice was seen as increasingly outdated and sexist. Feminist activists like Roxcy Bolton campaigned against the gendered implication that women alone were responsible for chaos and destruction. This cultural pressure, combined with a growing desire for a more equitable system, prompted a major change.
In 1979, the WMO and the U.S. National Weather Service finally revised the system, introducing men’s names to the lists. This marked the beginning of the modern era of storm naming.
Today, the WMO oversees a highly organized system with different naming conventions for various storm basins around the world. For the Atlantic basin, the process works like this:
Other regions have their own unique lists. Typhoons in the Northwest Pacific, for example, are named from lists contributed by 14 different countries in the region. These names are often not personal names but words for flowers, animals, or even foods, such as Lan (Orchid) from the USA, Maliksi (Fast) from the Philippines, or Gaemi (Ant) from South Korea.
What happens when a storm is so deadly and destructive that its name becomes synonymous with tragedy? In these cases, the WMO committee for that region can vote to “retire” the name.
A name is retired out of respect for the victims and survivors. Using a name like Katrina (2005), Sandy (2012), Maria (2017), or Ida (2021) for a future storm would be insensitive and confusing. These names are removed permanently from the rotating lists and replaced by another name starting with the same letter. For example, Katrina was replaced with Katia, and Ian (2022) was replaced with Idris.
The list of retired hurricane names reads like a history of the most devastating storms of the past several decades. These names are no longer just identifiers; they have become linguistic markers of collective trauma and resilience.
In extremely active hurricane seasons, it’s possible to exhaust the entire alphabetical list of 21 names. This happened in the record-breaking 2005 season and again in 2020.
Previously, the WMO’s procedure was to switch to the Greek alphabet (Alpha, Beta, Gamma, etc.). However, this caused its own set of problems. The WMO found that:
As a result, in 2021, the WMO officially discontinued the use of the Greek alphabet. Now, if the primary list is exhausted, they will draw from a supplemental list of names, also in alphabetical order. This new approach ensures that even in the most extreme seasons, the names remain clear, distinct, and easy to communicate.
From disliked politicians to a rotating, multicultural, and carefully curated list, the way we name hurricanes is a perfect example of how language adapts to our needs. It’s a system born from a need for clarity, shaped by cultural change, and designed, above all, to keep people safe.
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