Experience two minutes and twenty-three seconds of astronomical ecstasy!

Eclipse Virgin

That’s what they call you if you’ve never seen a total solar eclipse…

Laurie McAndish King
6 min readJul 25, 2017

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©bigstockphoto.com/Solarseven

My first time was with my father. He decided it was time for my initiation because I was, after forty-plus years, still a virgin — an eclipse virgin.

Let me explain.

If you’ve never experienced a total solar eclipse, that’s what you’re called: an eclipse virgin. We’re talking about that elegant astronomical collusion during which the earth, the new moon, and the sun are perfectly aligned. Partials don’t count, and the moon doesn’t either. It’s a moment hung in time: a mere blink in the lifetime of our solar system — but oh, what a blink! People who experience it are invariably reduced to weak-kneed wonder. Some undergo an on-the-spot conversion from eclipse virgin to eclipse chaser.

For this particular celestial meetup we converged in Athens, boarded the sailing ship Marco Polo, and headed northeast through the Straits of Bosphorous and into the Black Sea. Most of the participants had already seen several eclipses. I couldn’t help but wonder what brought them back for another and then another — and why some of our group were so excited they hardly slept the night before.

My father, an amateur astronomer, has witnessed five total solar eclipses in his seventy-eight years. He has lusted after glossy pictures of them in Sky & Telescope magazine, chased around the world after them, and photographed them. He even took me to see one. It was Wednesday, August 11, 1999: the final total solar eclipse of the last millennium — my first time.

Dad tried to describe the event before we went. “Everyone around you ooohs and aaaahs and screams, and then cries during totality,” he explained. “It’s a very emotional experience, like … well, you’ll see.”

Then he decided to tell me the whole truth. In a halting voice, Dad explained that experiencing a total solar eclipse is “like being in the middle of a big group orgasm.” Being an adult, and capable of some degree of discretion, I let the obvious question pass unasked. What could my father possibly know about a “big group orgasm”? Apparently, I was going to find out.

In order to experience totality, Dad explained, we had to be in the path of totality. The Path of Totality: It sounded like something a radical religious sect might insist its converts adhere to. And, indeed, it turned out that we were in the company of fervent seekers. Several hundred astronomers and their families, along with a former astronaut, a Nobel laureate, and the publisher of Sky & Telescope magazine, had traveled halfway around the world to witness this electrifying event.

The sky was clear, and the atmosphere bright with anticipation as our group crowded onto the Marco Polo’s wide deck after breakfast that day — hours before the event began — intent on adjusting our safety goggles, checking the sun’s ascension, and carefully positioning our equipment: fat telescopes, oversized binoculars, and high-end video cameras, all fitted with dark filters so we could watch without ruining our retinas. Because an eclipse blocks only a portion of the sun’s ultraviolet rays, we needed protective goggles for viewing. Totality, when the sun is completely blocked by the moon, is the only time you can look directly at that burning orb without danger of permanent damage to your vision.

Hooded cameras on tall tripods moved among us, Darth Vader-like, as veterans jockeyed for the best viewing spot. “This is excellent!” one astronomer shouted, checking his charts and GPS. “We’re right in the middle of the path of totality!”

“We’d better be,” a deep voice called out in response. “It’s been on the schedule for four billion years. The least we can do is show up in the right place.”

While we waited, the astronomers reminisced about past eclipses in the Galapagos or Alaska, Paraguay or Iran. They told stories of outwitting crowds and weather, of mountaintop observation posts, illegal border crossings, and ill-considered visa requests. No destination was too remote, it seemed, and no hardship too difficult, when the promise of a total solar eclipse sang its sirens’ song.

I was enjoying my chat with a veteran eclipse chaser until he suddenly burst out, “Hey; we’ve got a virgin over here!” He meant me.

“She’ll get the full two minutes, twenty-three seconds,” someone nearby chuckled.

All this fuss for an occurrence that lasts less than two and a half minutes? Extraordinary minutes, yes, but how good could it possibly be?

Actually, the eclipse lasted for several hours from start to finish. During the early stages, it was difficult to tell anything was happening. Then I focused my green goggles right at the sun, and was surprised to discover a small, dark “bite” missing. Gradually the bite grew larger, until the sun was just a slim crescent.

Shortly before totality, romantic sunset reds and oranges glowed for 360 degrees, all the way around the horizon. The sky turned steely gray, the air cooled; goosebumps emerged on our bare skin. Because our source of light had been reduced to a sliver, the world took on a pinhole-camera-like quality. Shadows sharpened, and my eyesight became so clear, it was as though I had superhuman powers.

The “Diamond Ring” effect. This photo from Kubotake via Wikimedia Commons

Soon the much-anticipated “Diamond Ring Effect” began. It occurs just before totality, when the last little bit of sunlight peeks out from behind the last crater on the moon’s surface, creating the impression of a gigantic diamond engagement ring in the heavens. The black circle of the moon’s shadow is the “hole,” and the “ring” is a slender circle of golden light around the shadow’s circumference. Finally, a brilliant white “diamond” — at least two carats, maybe three — blazes for a few stunning seconds, then disappears.

Then totality: that extraordinary time during which the participating celestial bodies are perfectly aligned, and the moon’s darkness obliterates the daylight. Totality was what we were all there for.

Quietly expectant, breathing almost as a single being, we watched and waited. Cameras clicked and whirred like locusts in a biblical plague. Then — at the moment of totality — the crowd jumped and whooped. Two minutes and twenty-three seconds was a lengthy period, allowing us plenty of time to admire the sensual patterns of what astronomers call the coronal discharge: delicate undulations of the sun’s outer atmosphere, ionized and streaming out into the cosmos. Astronomers murmured, prayer-like, as they gazed upwards. Couples hugged. A man proposed marriage; his companion accepted. A few people even cried, just like Dad had said.

Me? Well, I threw off those safety goggles with wild abandon and looked straight at the sun. And then, with a shiver, I joined the cheering mob — couldn’t help myself. I had become a convert to the Path of Totality.

And, in that moment, I understood humanity’s age-old fascination with eclipses. They connect us with the heavens. We had not merely watched a total solar eclipse; we had experienced it. We had felt the miracle of a billion years, of a celestial clock timed to infinity, of darkness followed by resurrection. And, without fear of blindness, we had looked directly at the fiery orb that holds us in its gravitational pull and gives life to the earth, to each one of us, every day.

We had gazed upon the eye of God.

This story was first published in Lost, Kidnapped, Eaten Alive! True Stories from a Curious Traveler — a collection of adventure stories from around the world. The book won first place in the San Francisco Book Festival, and is available from Book Passage in Corte Madera, CA; from other independent bookstores at IndieBound; and online.

Here’s a link to NASA’s eclipse site, with instructions for safe viewing.

And here’s how to make a projector to safely view the eclipse.

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Laurie McAndish King

Award-winning travel writer and photographer specializing in nature and culture.