How Do We Name a Hurricane?

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.

The Chaotic Beginnings: Saints, Places, and Politicians

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.

An All-Female Cast: The Mid-20th Century System

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.

A Modern, Multicultural Naming Convention

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:

• Six Rotating Lists: There are six lists of names, which are used in rotation. The 2023 list, for example, will be used again in 2029.
• Alphabetical and Alternating: The names on each list are arranged alphabetically, alternating between male and female names (e.g., Arlene, Bret, Cindy, Don…).
• Skipped Letters: The letters Q, U, X, Y, and Z are not used because there are not enough common names starting with these letters to fill the lists.
• Multicultural Names: The Atlantic lists are a blend of English, Spanish, and French names (like Danielle, Gaston, and Hermine), reflecting the primary languages of the countries affected by Atlantic hurricanes. This is a deliberate linguistic choice to create familiarity and resonance across diverse cultures.

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.

The Linguistic Scar Tissue: Retiring a Name

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.

What Happens When We Run Out of Names?

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:

• It created confusion, as names like Zeta, Eta, and Theta sounded too similar in broadcasts.
• The focus on the use of the Greek alphabet was a distraction from the crucial life-or-death warnings.
• It put a potentially over-sensationalized emphasis on the record-breaking nature of the season.

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.