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Continuing with last week’s hurricane
season theme
, Geek Trivia poses this question: Why name a hurricane? No,
this isn’t an existential debate or a rhetorical exercise, and the question
does have an answer. In fact, the answer is simplicity itself: Naming
hurricanes makes them easier to catalog and track.

As almost any resident of the Atlantic basin’s coastal areas
can tell you, multiple hurricanes can form in one region at the same time, and
these storms remain in constant motion. That’s why American meteorologists
abandoned “positional” hurricane tracking—as in “the tropical
cyclone presently located 75 miles North-Northeast of Kingston, Jamaica”—in

For two years, the United States used the international
phonetic alphabet familiar to many military personnel—Able, Baker, Charlie, and
so on. But it gave up that practice in 1953 for the use of proper names—proper
female names, to be specific, a gender-centric practice that continued until
1979. Since 1979, U.S. meteorologists have alternately used male and female
proper names to name the Atlantic and Northeast Pacific basins’ hurricanes.

And yes, the phrase “Atlantic and Northeast Pacific
basins” is a critical distinction. There are seven major basins where tropical
cyclones (the class of storms to which hurricanes belong) can form, and meteorologists
in most of these areas use differing naming conventions for these storms.

Moreover, the term hurricane
is only applicable in the North Atlantic and Northeast Pacific oceans. The very
same type of storm would be a typhoon
in the Northwest Pacific Ocean, a severe
tropical cyclone
in the Southwest Pacific Ocean, a severe cyclonic storm in the North Indian Ocean, and simply a tropical cyclone in the Southwest Indian

If science can’t agree on the clinical term for the type of
storm, it should come as little surprise that typhoons don’t follow the same
naming conventions as hurricanes. (However, both words do have comparable
mythological roots: typhoon from Typhon, a terrifying monster of Greek mythology,
and hurricane from Hurakan, a Mayan god of wind and storms.)

Yet for all the rules and regulations surrounding the naming
of tropical cyclones, a loophole or two remains. Earlier this year, the first
modern “nameless” hurricane came into being when a high-level
tropical cyclone formed in a region that had no established naming convention
for such a storm.


When did the first modern “nameless” hurricane—specifically,
a tropical cyclone that develops in a region with no established naming
convention for storms—occur, and where did it form?

On March 28, 2004, a massive storm made landfall near
Torres, Brazil, along the country’s South Atlantic coast, and later analysis
confirmed meteorologists’ suspicions that this storm was in fact a Category 1

In more than four decades of satellite weather tracking, no
hurricane-level storm has ever formed in the South Atlantic. As such, no naming
convention for Southern Atlantic hurricanes exists. Indeed, no hurricane-tracking
or warning systems are even in place for this region.

When the “nameless” hurricane made landfall,
scientists still weren’t sure it had actually reached hurricane strength
because none of the appropriate ground-based meteorological instruments were in
place to make that immediate determination. Even after the storm passed, no
precise data existed to determine when the storm reached hurricane strength.

In the aftermath of the storm, Brazilians named it Hurricane
Catarina, as the storm made landfall in the local state of Santa Catarina. (The
World Meteorological Organization, which has naming rules for every oceanic
region except the South Atlantic, does not formally recognize the name.) This
ad hoc christening harkens back to the days before the modern practice of
giving hurricanes proper names.

During the 1940s, U.S. military meteorologists often informally
nicknamed hurricanes after their girlfriends and female relatives. Australian
meteorologists have long practiced the tradition of informally nicknaming
tropical cyclones—a tradition that includes the perhaps apocryphal tale of one
snarky Aussie weatherman who named storms after politicians he disliked.

Even Brazil’s Santa Catarina namesake is in good company, as
the 1800s and early 1900s saw many Caribbean hurricanes named for the Catholic saints’
days on which the storms made landfall. For example, locals called the
hurricane that struck Puerto Rico on Sept. 13, 1876 Hurricane San Felipe.

When a hurricane struck the same island on the same day in
1928, locals simply called it Hurricane San Felipe The Second. Now there’s some
Geek Trivia that will blow you away.

Gather ’round the IT water cooler at GeekRepublic

Hey gang, we’re once again refining the continuing
experiment that is GeekRepublic. We’ve
been rounding up links to “off topic” and news-related discussions in
one handy place, alongside a Geek Trivia archive and a list of the most dorktacular
geek lifestyle sites on the Web. Check out what’s going on at geek.techrepublic.com,
and tell us how we can keep improving GeekRepublic by
posting to this discussion

The Quibble of the Week

If you uncover a questionable fact or debatable aspect of
this week’s Geek Trivia, just post it in the discussion area of the article.
Every week, yours truly will choose the best post from the assembled masses and
discuss it in the next edition of Geek Trivia.

This week’s quibble is from the Aug. 18 edition of Geek
Trivia, “Olympic
muddle winners,”
which discussed the world’s largest single roof.
TechRepublic member CodeCurmudgeon
wanted to clear up a few definitions.

“I suspect the Munich stadium has the world’s largest clear-span roof. Look at any major
industrial plant, and you will find a far larger roof than on this

In strict total-covered-area terms, dear reader, you are
correct, but the key term used in the article was “single roof.” I,
like many architects and the Guinness
Book of World Records
, would consider large factory spaces and convention
halls to comprise several interconnected roofs.

So, while you’re on the right track, clear span—which has
more to do with the space beneath the roof remaining uninterrupted by support
columns—is not exactly the term we were looking for.

The Trivia Geek, also
known as Jay Garmon, is a former advertising copywriter and Web developer who’s
duped TechRepublic into underwriting his affinity for movies, sci-fi, comic
books, technology, and all things geekish or subcultural.