It was not until planning a recent trip to Maui that I became very aware of the oddities of the system. In searching for flights online, I saw that the Kahului, Maui, airport was coded OGG. “OGG?” I mused. “What could that mean? Oh goodness gracious? Oh great gods…?” Though I pulled up a map and scanned the cities in search of a reason, I found none for O double G. It just wasn’t making sense.

Thinking that my home airport—YWG for Winnipeg—at least had a fragment of logic, I scrolled through the list of airport acronyms only to find the system (if one could call it a system) downright baffling. There was ATL for Atlanta, BGI for Barbados, CVG for Cincinnati, LAX for Los Angeles, MCI for Kansas City and YTO for Toronto. Then, I discovered YYY for Mont Joli, Quebec. It perfectly summed up the whirlwind in my mind: Why? Why? Why?

And so I sat, shaking my head in confused wonder, regretting that the brilliant Mr. Dewey, clever creator of the library card catalog system, didn’t work for the airlines. But since my mind was on Maui, I temporarily blocked out the madness, purchased our tickets and focused on planning our trip.

Every day, dreams of white beaches, fresh pineapples and sweet-scented flowers overcame me, yet somewhere in the background airport codes lurked, occasionally biting at me for my attention. Eventually Airport Codes beat out Maui, and I left the sunny beaches for a walk though the misty haze of airport terminal insanity.

It all began in Havana, Cuba, in 1945. The International Air Transport Association (IATA) decided there needed to be a system for airports. As a keeper of the codes, IATA defines and decides the three-letter acronyms designating each airport around the world. With over 20,000 possibilities, there are currently just over 300 duplicates. I must admit that scares me a bit—the duplicates, I mean. If I am flying to Guangdong, China with its Homerism of DOH, I do not want to end up in Doho, Qatar, also dubbed DOH. Seriously, can they not add in numbers or other keyboard characters to eliminate the doubles? Oh, for Mr. Dewey…

Though unimpressed with this piece of knowledge, I still just had to know how the codes came into being. Some airports are obvious, comprised of the first three letters in the city’s name: ATL for Atlanta, ACA for Acapulco and AUS for Austin. There is also logic to be found in the cities whose codes contain three prominent letters in their name. CZM makes complete sense for Cozumel, Mexico. And WLG works for Wellington, New Zealand. Even ZLO is appropriate for Manzanillo, Mexico.

But then there is the issue of the letter Y. Long ago, Canada’s aviation authorities planted their flag, laying claim to the letter. It is often easy to recognize a Canadian airport by the letter leading the acronym. Vancouver earned YVR; Toronto became YTO and Winnipeg now made perfect sense with its dubious title of YWG. For Mont Joli, Quebec, however, logic did not apply in its humorous designation: YYY. 

While it is true that other Canada cities had already taken the obvious choices: YMJ for Moose Jaw, YJM for Fort St James, and YMO for Moosonee, it seems as though the Mont Jolians just gave up at some point. Perhaps the boardroom was filled with businesspeople, heads on the table, frustrated that everything they wanted was taken. I can see them groaning “Why?” as each attempt at naming was defeated. My best guess is that someone in that room had a sense of humor… and some persuasion tactics.

There are many other airports that tried for the obvious only to learn they were already in use or reserved for another. Some were not as fortunate as Mont Joli. Sioux City, Iowa, fought for other titles but landed with the distinction that it SUX; Madrid, Spain, became MAD; and Fresno, California – well, it’s just plain FAT (Fresno Air Terminal). The Hague, Netherlands, is a HAG while Holguin, Cuba, is a HOG. In Pueblo, Colorado, you’ll find the PUB, and in Singapore, you’ll find SIN.

Some airports were coded so long ago for names that no longer exist, bringing confusion to that which was once completely logical. Chicago’s busy O’Hare airport is dubbed ORD. It turns out that there once used to be a small airport and a small orchard field on its location. The airport way back when was called Orchard Depot, and ORD its code remains.

While Washington, DC, lucked out with WAS and Kona, Hawaii, claimed KOA, many cities beginning with W or K had to find something else since the letters overlapped with American radio and television station identifiers and were soon banned as a starting letter in airport use. While Waco, Texas, became ACT; White Plains, New York, became HPN; Wenatchee, Washington, became EAT and Kansas City pretended to be Missouri City, taking on the code MCI.

Stretching beyond the boundaries of geography, some airports took pride in politics or aviation history. Destined to be the most famous code for quite some time, New York’s JFK took its initials from the long-loved President of the United States, John F. Kennedy. Nashville used NA, then placed a B in front, in honor of Colonel Harry Berry who assisting in building the airport.

Though it is hard to admit, it seems as though airports everywhere have a reason behind their name and that there really is a method to the madness. (Though there remain some airports with far-fetched acronyms that still leave me scratching my head, and I still claim there is at least an edge of madness to it all.)

By Tammy Wood - Copyright Tammy Wood © 2004.