Follow this link to hear my very excited and hopeful (and in retrospect, sad) RNZ interview with First Up host Lydia Batham, recorded at sea on the M/S Paul Gauguin after leaving Pitcairn Island.
Prepping again for the next TSE! The welders glasses I’ve used for the partial phases since The Big One (Baja, 1991) are scratched, worn, and a little broken, but they’ll block blinding Sol’s rays one more time with a little duct tape patch on the seam. I hope.
I’m currently overpacking (example: three bathing suits) for the South Pacific “Cruise to Totality”, a TravelQuest tour aboard the MS Paul Gauguin that will sail from Tahiti on June 27. Her passengers will witness 3 minutes and 16 seconds of totality at sea on July 2, 2019, somewhere between Pitcairn Island and Rangiroa. Clear skies are expected, and I’ll have my eighth total solar eclipse in the can.
I’m almost more excited about the add-on excursion to Easter Island (Rapa Nui), a destination I’ve always wanted to see for myself. Something about those massive Moai heads are calling—so much so that I made an effort during a road trip to the Midwest this month to find and take a selfie with the “Moai Dude” sculpture. He stands in a suburban playground in Altoona, Iowa. Can’t wait to meet a real one…next week!
Umbraphiles, have you logged your eclipses at the Eclipse Chasers website? All the cool kids are doing it.
Eclipse chaser “sounds better than eclipse stalker, paparazzi, or voyeur which are more accurate terms,” states site author Bill Kramer, a veteran of ten TSEs. “If you stay in one place all your life, the chances of seeing a total solar eclipse are quite slim. As a consequence, in order to see one or more total eclipses of the sun one must travel to see them. And that is how you become an Eclipse Chaser.”
Kramer has painstakingly assembled a nice little hub for chasers to keep track of their travels, surveil each other, and find out who else was there on the day of totality.
The Eclipse Chaser site allows you to find and claim any total, annular and/or partial eclipse, dating from 1806. (So, if you’re 211 years old, you might need to get a teenager to help you with the log in.) Add everything you can remember about your eclipse experiences, hit “save”, and your name, shadow time, chase success and other details will be posted automatically to the user summary—314 names, and counting!
Your log will include a delicious quantity of too much information you never knew you wanted to know.
Mine looks like this:
Eclipse count: 7, of which 6 were total and 1 were annular types. The remaining were partials.
Number of Saros Series seen is 6
Time in shadow of the moon: 17h 32m 31.9s. (all partial plus total plus annular)
Total Eclipse time: 21m 9.0s (1,269.0 seconds)
Annular Eclipse time: 6m 50.8s (410.8 seconds)
Central shadow time (A+T): 27m 59.8s
The site is fantastic resource for past eclipse data and includes fun auxiliary information about safety and equipment, collectibles, a gallery of images, how to chase an eclipse (there are five steps! who knew), and even boring transits.
Just select “join log” and you’re on your way. Don’t rush your entries—it make take a few tries to drop a pin on exactly where you were standing in the shadow—and don’t forget, like I did until later, to use the drop down menu to select the exact weather conditions (fun detail, Bill!). No worries, though—you can go back and edit your entry at any time.
Ha ha! JK. I’m not riding my bike 21 miles. But the edge of totality falls across Redmond, Oregon on August 21, 2017 at the northernmost edge of Roberts Field airport, just up the highway from my home in Bend.
People ‘round these parts say they remember the Northwest eclipse of 1979—no they don’t. It was clouded out. (Disagree? Let’s see your corona shot. Yeah, I thought so.)
On eclipse day I will not be driving from my house—gridlock will grip highways 97 and 26 on the weekend before August 21st and traffic to the path from all directions will be slower than the Bend Broadband wireless network.
Below: Lake Simtustus site; position of the sun at first contact on August 21; Great American path
A giant tapestry-type tent was erected on the beach outside the hotel in Mersa Matruh, and the post-eclipse celebration inside was memorable—woven carpets covered the sand, and table after table was heaped with catered Mediterranean food.
Funny WTF moment: at the cheese and hummus table I pointed to a bowl of chalky grey squares and inquired with a lift of my eyebrows to a man behind the table wearing a chef’s uniform and tall white toque. He just shrugged, so I reached for one and started to put it in my mouth. “No eat!! No eat!!” he screamed, waving me off. I dropped it and ran. I still don’t know what it was.
A dorky DJ spun outdated American records and the frenzied eclipse nerds danced to “YMCA”.
The entire glorious day was a travel memory I wish I could relive, with my Ralph, exactly as it was—except I’d take more photos.
Above: Celebration tent in Mersa Matruh
Chasers get down
Fast forward three years, three months, and 23 days, when I join an Astronomical League tour through Spears Travel to Bolivia, “the last authentic country”. All the usual suspects were stampeding to South America, including groups with Travel Bug, Sky & Telescope, and Scientific Expeditions.
On October 27, 1994 I flew from Miami on an overnight flight to La Paz next to a cranky gentleman in a grey suit who was irritated about what he perceived to be the abundance of “students” on the flight who were discussing, loudly, degrees above horizon, rock collecting, and whether or not they remembered to bring duct tape. Seated throughout the plane were others of my kind: amateur astronomers. I spotted them immediately in the terminal without a field guide, and some were aggressively On The Spectrum. (I boldly introduced myself to a couple—“pleased to meet you, I’m Rhonda from Oregon,” said I. The woman glowered and replied, “how do you KNOW you’re pleased to meet us? You haven’t met us yet.” This is going to be a long vacation.)
“Intijiwaña”—the Bolivian slogan for the TSE of 1994—means “Death of the Sun”, and reflects the myth imagery and extreme behavior of the average pre-Colombian Andean (who also enjoyed savage games involving decapitation). It was a puma spirit that was once believed to cause all the trouble by swallowing the sun, who must be chased away by screaming children brandishing sticks and beating other animals. (Like a dog who is reinforced to bark at the mailman because the mailman always leaves after a couple of minutes, the Andeans learned that this technique is 100% successful.) In some areas the eclipsing sun was thought to be languishing near death, and native peoples lit wildfires to warm the Earth while the sun was on sick leave. CALM DOWN Bolivia.
Above: Death of the Sun
Path of totality, 1994
Ancient Bolivian eclipse causes widespread panic