A How-to Guide for Hurricane Names
Maybe it is time for a change…
“Apocalypse, Bad Ass… or maybe Bob… Cthulu, Darth Vader, YES!!!,” Dr. Marshal Tamsin, a young meteorologist who had already become highly renowned for his exceedingly accurate predictions, thought to himself as he lay ticking off the alphabet while tossing and turning late one night.
Tamsin had sweated his way through each night for months now, anticipating this moment.
The annual meeting of the World Meteorological Association would be taking place in a few hours and a very important — very public — situation was about to unfold; naming plans for the 2028 Tropical Cyclone Season in the Atlantic.
While Tamsin was no master of his trade, he had long desired a seat on the committee to name storms, a right given to, and determined by a privileged few. Names previously selected were renewed every six years, unless the name was connected to a devastating storm. Then the name was retired and the committee selected a new one.
So, opportunities to inject new names were fairly bleak, but Tamsin was determined to overhaul the system.
He had often wondered, even joked with his friends, about how these names were derived. He knew, of course, it was an international committee, so sometimes the names did not fit his American tastes, but that was no problem when it was a name like, say, Imelda or Gonzalo, but when it came to names such as Barry, Wilfred or, “Jesus Christ, they actually named one Nana,” he thought, reflecting on his beloved maternal grandmother as though she had morphed into a force of nature, destroying everything in her path.
“This is just not right,” he thought. As an English/communications major-turned meteorologist, not to mention a native Floridian, Tamsin had long since been plagued by what he saw as the “naming disorder.”
Tamsin lived for storms. He was not afraid of thunder, rather, fascinated by it and its paternal twin, lightening. So, it just seemed a natural progression when he abandoned the world of literature for reporting on hard, fast storm science.
He remained close to his writing buddies, though, always looking to them for inspiration in his ultimate pursuit.
One night over drinks, he told his friends, “You cannot expect a group of scientists to come up with appropriate names for cyclones. I can just hear the discussion now, ‘Oh, Hans, maybe we should name the next storm ‘Fred,’ because historically it means ‘peaceful ruler.’ Bullshit. These storms need to be named for what they are. And, granted, while we will not know how violent they end up becoming, we must plan that they are all hellraisers. Just for the hell of it.”
His friends fidgeted somewhat at the ferocity of his diatribe but could not help but agree.
After several rounds, they were all firing off names, the best of which represented legendary superheroes, mythical goddesses, lords of the underworld and occasionally just, straight expletives.
“See?” Tamsin said, excitedly. “We can’t be the only ones who get this. The time has come.”
Tamsin was overjoyed when the letter came accepting his application to the naming committee.
He kept a running list of storm names that he would propose at the meeting, spending months from the time of his acceptance until the day arrived, planning his attack on what he saw as the ultimate boredom, ridiculousness and sometimes a slap in the face from people who did not know the most fundamental and unifying aspect of human culture — the art of naming.
“Edgar Allan Poe, Fart-Face, Godzilla….” The refrain of alphabetic atrocities kept raging. He was particularly perturbed that the committee previously chose to eliminate names that started with the letters Q, U, X, Y and Z, citing difficulties choosing appropriate monikers that began that way.
He was fully prepared to share his choices for names starting with those gorgeous letters. Hell, he had so many, they could just choose what suited them, he thought. “QueensBlood, Unicorn, Xerxes, Yemaya…” he continued thinking.
His outfit for the big day was carefully chosen — a sharply cut Brioni suit, conservative tie, Prada loafers and his beloved vintage briefcase. Not one to hold back, Tamsin knew he needed to make the best impression if his plan was to be taken seriously.
He arrived at the convention center, found the room, and grabbed his placeholder ticket, just outside the door. He entered the space to find he was among the first to arrive at a table set for 20.
Tamsin sat down and looked around at the others. As people came in and found their seats, they were waving to each other from across the room and issuing greetings of familiarity in various languages. By swift glances cast, he could tell they were wondering who he was — a newcomer to this established circle that had met — with mostly exclusive membership — for the past 24 years.
A woman took her seat next to him. She looked as though she had attended many such meetings, her hair arranged in a careful bun, her makeup mild, a slightly awkward skirt suit. And smile lines hiding at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Her nametag pronounced her “Dr. Elizabeth Dunn, paleotempestology expert, Chief Meteorologist, Newfoundland, Canada.”
After the seats all were filled, the group chair, Dr. Eliza Woods, also a “Chief Meteorologist,” somewhere, in some place along the Atlantic coast, took her position, called roll, read the agenda, then progressed to the minutes from the previous meeting. Eventually, the floor was opened to public comment on the topic of naming the cyclones.
Tamsin was practically jumping out of his seat. “Thank God I’m not sweating my brains out right now, glad for no more Adderall, that was bad. Let’s just do this. Let’s just do this, can I do this?” kept pounding through his head.
“Alrighty folks, we have reached the point in the meeting wherein I will read requests for new names for the following seasonal gaps to fill,” Woods said with a smile. Everyone (well, almost everyone) at that table saw this task as a fun, yet patriotic way of expressing themselves and their respective countries. According to her face. But she had no idea.
Tamsin was ready.
What he was not expecting, however, was the abundance of other hand-raisers who, quite frankly, had more clout and esteemed presence than he.
First there was Dr. Mitch Crup, a meteorologist from Atlanta who had been reading storms for 30 years. He suggested that the “S” cyclone name should be replaced to be “Seacrest”, in honor of Ryan Seacrest, a “pop culture hero,” who was born in Atlanta and is “just so enthusiastic and his name even has ‘sea’ in it!” All Tamsin could think was, “Yeah, someone has some unresolved issues to deal with…,” as he tried to repress his chuckle, along with the rest of the table-sitters, he assumed.
“We can keep that under consideration,” Woods said.
Then Dunn raised her hand to speak. “I think we need to incorporate a name with the letter ‘Q’ and I think it should be ‘Quirk.’ Tamsin was shocked. Was she trying to beat him at his own game?
“’Quirk’ is a long-standing family name in my neck of the woods and I feel, since a hurricane is, indeed a ‘quirk’ of nature, the name would be appropriate for future storms.” She then took her seat with a slightly righteous smile on her face.
People nodded approval.
Tamsin, who was already committed to “Qemuel” a fallen angel that was actually destroyed by God, as the name for the newly erected “Q,” felt he would explode if he did not just bust forth with his list.
He raised his hand.
“Hello Dr. Tamsin,” Woods said with a motherly grin. “I suppose I should have introduced you to the group, as you are the newcomer,” she said. “Marshal, I’m sorry, Dr. Tamsin, is something of a prodigy in his field. Even as a youngster (communal appropriate laughter) he not only predicts storms with accuracy, contributes to research in journals you have likely already read, but is known for his eloquent, yet precise, way of sharing storm information with the public in a way that they can connect with.”
People clapped.
Tamsin stood up and approached the microphone.
“Thank you all for having me here. I cannot tell you how long I have imagined myself here, doing this,” Tamsin said. Looking away from the light in the other peoples’ eyes, needing a break as he investigated the ground and considered his next move.
“I am tired. Really tired. I am trying to be respectful to you. I know you all have been at this for years, But I am tired and, quite frankly embarrassed — on an international level — with these names. I have spent countless, sleepless hours, time with many well-respected journalists, hobos, children, Hemingway, Stephen King, even damned Shakespeare for crying out loud and I have come to some conclusions,” he said. “Can you imagine what might have happened had you named her Kali instead of Katrina? More people might have left. Strike fear in their hearts to save them.”
“That caught their attention,” he thought, now starting to sweat, as he saw 20 pairs of wide-open eyes staring directly at him.
He took a deep breath and said, “So here goes. I think we need to not make these names sound so benign. It is a joke. Let us honor these storms for what they are; the changing of our environment and the result of forces out of our control, just like the gods and goddesses, just like the super-villains and sure as hell like the swear words that erupt from our mouths as soon as we see one of these monstrosities bearing down on us.”
The silent stares started to tremble a little when they heard that and in a gentle wave of surrender, they all sort of crumbled, then slowly started laughing, quietly, as though they knew they should not be.
Tamsin started to read off his list. One by one, the committee members slowly started to stand as each new name was called.
“Apocalypse, BadAss, Cthulu, Darth Vader, Elvira…”
