By Ashok Ogra*
Gals and Gales: Decoding Hurricane Her-Story
The names Sandy, Katrina, and Emily evoke visions of swirling chaos and destructive winds, but have you pondered why so many hurricanes and typhoons earn feminine monikers in media narratives? Could it stem from seafaring lore, where sailors christened ships after goddesses or guardian women, seeing vessels as caring yet capricious— a comparison that extends, albeit controversially, to tempests? Or does it echo mid-20th-century notions that pegged women as erratic and moody, much like the whims of a raging gale?
Satirists, naturally, have spun their own yarns, jesting that hurricanes are “she” because they barrel in unannounced, wreaking havoc and vanishing, leaving chaos in their wake. Others quip that forecasters name, alert, and then act as baffled as everyone else when the storm hits. As one keen wit observed in a piece titled When a Name Makes the Gale Gendered: “Like tempests dubbed with ladies’ labels, some threats grin before they gut-punch.”
Curiously, prior to the 1900s, these whirlwinds lacked personal tags altogether, known instead by the locales they ravaged or the holy days they aligned with.
Take the San Mateo Hurricane of 1565, so dubbed for striking on September 22, just after St. Matthew’s feast, or Puerto Rico’s encounters with Hurricane Santa Ana in 1825 and San Felipe in 1876. The catastrophic Great Galveston Hurricane of 1900, claiming up to 12,000 lives, drew its identity solely from the stricken city, much like San Felipe from its calendar tie.
America clung to this until the early 1900s, when quirky Australian weather guru Clement Wragge shook things up by bestowing cyclones with human names—drawing from ladies, myths, and, cheekily, politicians he loathed. His approach blended science with sly mischief, making tracking easier amid his bold forecasts.
By the mid-1900s, U.S. meteorologists formalised female-only naming for hurricanes. In World War II’s Pacific theatre, assigning women’s names sped up radio chatter when storms overlapped, trumping clunky latitude-longitude specs or vague dates. Come 1953, the National Weather Service locked this in for Atlantic basins with alphabetic female rosters.
Yet, this wasn’t purely about crisp comms; it mirrored the era’s sexist undercurrents. Old logs reveal weathermen picking names of former spouses or flames to cast storms as spiteful divas. The idea persisted that only “feminine fury” lent storms gravitas, with broadcasts laced in tropes: hurricanes “coquettishly skirted shores,” “toyed with Tampa,” or “struck like a jilted lover’s rage.”
A 1968 Washington Post op-ed stirred uproar by claiming male-named storms missed the “allure” or “edge” of their female counterparts—a view steeped in the very prejudices birthing the custom.
Enter the 1970s, when feminists stormed the gates. Roxcy Bolton, a pioneering Florida activist who launched America’s inaugural rape crisis hub, led the charge, proposing “him-icanes” for balance. “Women resent being linked to calamity without cause,” she declared, rallying groups to push reform.
Their efforts paid off: In 1979, the service integrated male names, alternating genders alphabetically—a setup that endures now. Studies later uncovered a darker twist: Female-named hurricanes like Katrina or Emily prompted underestimation, particularly among men, resulting in lax prep and higher tolls. As a scribe noted: “The softest sobriquets mask the savage squalls.” Male-tagged ones, such as Ike or Andrew, spurred swifter action, exposing how biases skew survival instincts. Or, poetically: “She bore a bloom’s banner, yet her gusts felled ancient woods.”
Nowadays, the World Meteorological Organization oversees Atlantic naming with six cycling lists of 21 entries each, skipping tricky letters like Q, U, X, Y, Z for brevity and cross-cultural ease. After six years, they loop—barring retirements for infamous devastators like Katrina, Harvey, or Maria, honouring victims and avoiding reuse. Selections prioritise snappiness, uniqueness, and regional resonance for seamless global relay.
This evolved framework contrasts sharply with past haphazard, prejudiced ways, fostering equity. In East Asia’s typhoon zones, the Typhoon Committee—spanning 14 nations like China, Japan, the Philippines, and Thailand—curates a sequential pool of contributions: cultural terms, beasts, blooms. Think Wipha (a Thai tree), Mangkhut (a fruit from the Philippines), Haishen (Chinese for sea god), Noul (Korean sunset), or Lingling (a Chinese bell’s chime)—cycling endlessly, unbound by seasons.
For the north Indian Ocean, India’s Meteorological Department coordinates with 13 partners, including Bangladesh, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, pooling names rooted in local tongues for harmony and clarity, like Amphan (sky in Thai) or Tauktae (gecko in Burmese). This basin has endured horrors: the 1970 Bhola Cyclone that decimated Bangladesh with over 300,000 deaths, the 1999 Odisha Super Cyclone claiming 10,000, and 2008’s Nargis, which ravaged Myanmar with 138,000 fatalities.
Storm-naming’s saga brims with paradoxes and cultural oddities—from mariners beseeching deities and saints, to that Aussie maverick ribbing rivals, to Yanks venting via exes’ epithets. It mirrors humanity’s fears, foibles, and progress as keenly as any barometer.
Though modern protocols are more just and streamlined, echoes of those biased blasts persist in quips, coverage, and occasionally crisis response. Yet, dubbing a deluge “she” endures in humour and headlines. Some muse that if turmoil must ensue, why not with flair?
Stay vigilant: When the next vortex spins in the Atlantic or Bay of Bengal, its label emerges from an intricate global consensus, crafted for equity, inclusion, and accessibility. Lurking beneath, though, is a tempestuous tale—not merely of rain and roar, but of societal shifts, stigmas, and strides. No matter the tag, these behemoths barrel on with unyielding might, echoing Mark Twain: “You can’t argue with a hurricane.”
*The writer is a noted management and media professional and educator with over 45 years of experience across print, radio, television, and media education.
