No quake like home’s

You remembered. I’m touched. Someone asked that I reprise a column I

did years ago on hurricanes, how they are named and what all those

categories mean. If nothing else, it’s definitely timely.

Thus, for your meteorological pleasure, I give you, Everything

You’ve Always Wanted to Know About Hurricanes But Were Too Wet to

Ask. We begin.

Where do the names come from? I have no idea. Just kidding.

They come from the United Nations, of all places, which runs the

World Meteorological Organization. The WMO compiles alphabetical

lists of names for hurricanes years in advance for the Atlantic and

the Pacific, with 21 names on each list. Why 21 and not 26? It’s the

U.N. Don’t ask.

Until 1979, hurricanes were always named after women, but the

lists have been girl-boy-girl-boy since then, sort of like the

seating at your next dinner party, only less wind.

The official hurricane names for the Atlantic for 2005 -- envelope

please -- are: Arlene, Bret, Cindy, Dennis, Emily, Franklin, Gert,

Harvey, Irene, Jose, Katrina, Lee, Maria, Nate, Ophelia, Phillipe,

Rita, Stan, Tammy, Vince, Wilma.

But wait, if we just had Katrina, how did Rita get here so fast?

We’ll get to that in a minute.

If they need more than 21 names in a given year, they start

running through the Greek alphabet -- alpha, beta, Safeway, Vons,

etc.

Each list is recycled every six years, so this year’s names will

be reused in 2011. When meteorologists are sitting around thinking

deep thoughts about hurricanes and someone mentions “Hurricane

Bodacious” in 1964, they all know that Bodacious was the second

hurricane (letter “B”) of the 1964 season in that region, and

Hurricane Fifi was the sixth hurricane, etc. Pretty clever, huh?

Want to hear something weird? Two of the names on the 2009 list

are Peter (that’s me) and Nicholas (my son.) Two of the names on the

2010 list are Shary (my wife) and Lisa (my daughter.) I’m not sure

what that means, but I think we’ll pass on Florida in 2009 and 2010.

Little baby hurricanes originate along the West African coast and

are called tropical disturbances. If they eat a balanced diet, get

enough exercise and run into enough warm water as they drift

eastward, they become tropical cyclones. Think of it as a hurricane’s

teenage years.

When the winds in a tropical cyclone reach 39 mph, the National

Hurricane Center in Miami pats it on the head, says “Nice work, kid,

you’re a tropical storm,” and assigns it a name from the WMO list.

There is your answer: Lee, Maria, Nate, Ophelia and Phillipe were

all tropical storms that formed in the weeks between Katrina and

Rita, but they never became full-grown hurricanes, which means they

never got big press.

In any case, when the winds in a tropical storm reach 74 mph, it’s

a full-fledged hurricane, which means it’s big and mean and

dangerous.

What do all those categories mean?

Hurricanes are classified according to something called the

Saffir-Simpson scale of strength, which, if you were a trained

meteorologist like me, you would know is a special scale developed by

two people named Saffir and Simpson.

A Category 1 hurricane -- what the experts laughingly call weak --

packs winds of 74 to 95 mph. A Category 2, or moderate hurricane,

carries winds of 96 to 110 mph. And so it goes, until you reach

Category 5, or devastating, which means winds greater than 155 mph.

It’s hard to appreciate what winds at those speeds are like if you

haven’t experienced them firsthand. You know those scenes on the

local news of the Santa Ana winds in Ontario or the Cajon Pass, where

reporters have to hang on to something for dear life and they have

hair like Gumby? That’s about a 60 or 70 mph wind.

If you’ve ever been in a 100 mph wind -- I have, and once was

enough, thank you -- you won’t forget it. Few people have felt a 150

mph wind directly and lived to tell about it.

And keep in mind that the strongest tornados produce winds of over

200 mph. No wonder Toto was so wired all the time.

But you know what interests me more than all the technical stuff?

It’s how we react to these major disasters. No matter where we live,

we all get our turn, in our own way.

California has earthquakes.

The Southeast has hurricanes.

The North has blizzards.

The Midwest has tornados and floods.

The West has wildfires.

Whether you live on the bayou, on the High Plains or in Brooklyn,

one of the measures of your life is where you were when the Big One

of This Year or That Year or the Storm (Hurricane, Fire, Flood,

Earthquake) of the Century hit.

When a major disaster strikes, everyone who is everywhere but

“there” says the same thing: Why would anyone live there? Why would

you possibly put up with blizzards (hurricanes, fires, earthquakes,

floods) year after year?

Conversely, the people who actually live “there” and are being

beaten severely about the head and shoulders at the moment, can’t

imagine not living “there.”

“Why would anyone want to live anywhere else?” they say. “This is

God’s country.”

Doesn’t matter where it is -- California, Florida, the Gulf Coast,

Maine, Montana, Iowa -- it’s all God’s country apparently. And that

brings us to the never-ending discussion about who’s got it worse.

“At least our earthquakes are over in a few seconds.”

“Yeah, but our hurricanes move slowly and we have plenty of

warning.”

“That’s true, but our tornadoes are no big deal unless you’re

right in their path.”

Let’s face it. Live where you want; there are some things that

will always find you -- death, taxes, Paris Hilton and Mother Nature.

At the end of the day, it’s pretty simple. We all live “there,”

year after year, because it’s home. Sure, Mother Nature forgets to

take her meds now and then, but we work through it, clean up, replace

the parts that fell off, burned up or blew away, and get on with

life.

Dorothy said it, and I believe it, and that’s all there is to it:

There’s no place like home.

I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs

Sundays. He may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].