Family Sees Totality of Eclipse as Other-Worldly

By JEHAN EL-JOURBAGY

A few years ago, I read an article in a magazine about someone watching a total eclipse for the first time. I was entranced by the other-worldliness the author described. More recently, I heard an interview on the radio with an eclipse chaser, and he said the difference between a partial eclipse, even one that was 98 or 99 percent, and a total eclipse was the difference between standing on Earth and feeling like you are on another planet entirely.

When my husband and I first learned of the Great American eclipse, as it has been termed, we knew we would make every effort to be in the path of totality. We wanted to see this celestial event with our own eyes. Both of us spent countless hours studying road maps, the eclipse path and scouting possible locations for the best viewing, and we settled on South Carolina, specifically, Clemson University.

We learned that Clemson was hosting a special viewing on its campus, so we opted for the South Carolina Botanical Garden, just southeast of the campus (a detail that becomes relevant a little later in the story). A few days before the eclipse, we asked family members if they wanted to come, and my brother, ever the adventurer, said he was game, so we picked him up in Athens at about 8 a.m. on Monday morning.

The total eclipse was expected at 2:37 p.m. at our location, and, for some reason, we were expecting tailgate-like, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Perhaps not surprisingly, we had clear sailing the entire drive to the botanical garden. We arrived at about 9:45 a.m, and there was ample parking. Certainly, others like us were putting out chairs and getting comfortable, but we did not observe the throngs of curiosity-seekers we expected. Nevertheless, I felt a sense of urgency to find a good viewing spot, so we rushed to park our car.

As we staked a claim on a lovely patch of green in the children’s garden, we met other people who were gazing up at the sky and checking their apps, determining where the sun would be in the sky and ensuring they would have an unobstructed view. The first people we met were a couple from Miami, Fla., who had intended to view the eclipse in Charleston only to make a last minute change due to cloud cover.

Our spot in the garden was awfully hot. After setting out a picnic blanket, putting up a small tent, and finding a perfect shady hideaway in a large fig tree, I took the children on a walk through the gardens.

I must admit, even at 10 a.m., it was sweltering, but the walk along a creek bottom and in the shades of mature hardwoods was lovely. We passed by a rocky outcrop where a few people were gathered with African drums and guitars. Walking around and passing by other eclipse tourists made me feel a bit like being in a strange, outdoor airport.

We walked through the hostas garden, the “caboose” garden and finally made our way back to our spot – guarded, unnecessarily, it turns out, by my husband – in time to eat lunch underneath the cover of the fig tree. We also met other eclipse seekers, including a family from Washington, D.C., and an amateur astronomer from Melbourne, Fla.

The astronomer, Brian Davis, set up a telescope with a special filter and three cameras. We asked him if he had seen a total eclipse before, and he said he had not. He was incredibly generous, inviting us to look through the eyepiece of his telescope.

Thanks to a youtube video called “How to Watch the Eclipse” by Smarter Every Day, which was suggested to us by Jasper County High School science teacher Elizabeth Proctor, who coordinated the eclipse-viewing activities for Jasper County schools, we downloaded an app that provided us with details on the timing of the eclipse, including first contact (when the moon first starts to obscure the sun), second contact (the beginning of the total eclipse, when the moon completely covers the sun), third contact (when the sun peeks out from behind the moon after totality) and fourth contact (when the sun is no longer obscured by the moon).

The first contact was at 1:08 p.m., and after eating food and wandering around a bit more, we put on our solar glasses and gazed upward, enjoying the darkened view of a little crescent-moon sized sliver of the sun “eaten” by the moon. We would periodically run into others around us, such as one solitary, elderly gentleman who was watching the view near a butterfly garden, hoping to catch the butterflies turn in to roost when darkness fell.

Clouds began to form . . . large, cumulus clouds – the kind of moisture-laden clouds that threaten to turn into cumulonimbus or thunderheads. When a cloud covered my view of the partial eclipse, I wandered back over to the astronomer, and he shared my concern. Everyone intent on seeing a total eclipse was apprehensive – would we have come all that way to miss the stellar event of a lifetime? We could only hope that the clouds would dissipate or stay out of the way in time. In and out the sun appeared, occasionally completely shaded by puffy clouds and mostly bearing down on us as we waited.

The sun was blazing, the temperature was soaring, and my brother was working. The entire time. He was on various service calls, at first using the van as his mobile office, and as totality came closer, trouble-shooting with clients while sitting in a chair in the garden, gazing up at the sun with his welding googles.

The exciting time, the time I was waiting for, was second contact, 2:37 pm, the time when the moon covered the sun. Our app gave us warnings, such as “observe ambient air temperature” or “prepare for shadow bands.” I cannot exactly described how I felt – as if I was waiting for one of the most important arrivals in my life, almost like giving birth (but, of course, without any of the intense concentration and discomfort).

I didn’t want to hurt my eyes, because just before the total eclipse, even at 99 percent, the light is similar to looking at the full sun – unbearable and damaging. Before I saw the total eclipse, I heard a wave, a collective gasp and then cheers. These were the people who saw the eclipse just before I did – a large group probably a half a mile away, likely the students on the campus of Clemson.

And then, there it was. I removed my glasses and I was looking up at the sun’s corona, the mass of the sun entirely obscured by the body of the moon – wispy strands of silvery, white emanated from the blackened core. The sky was dark. Bright stars and planets emerged or rather were revealed. All around the horizon was the glow of twilight. I gazed back up and opened my arms.

For two minutes and 37 seconds, we could gaze upward, directly at the sun, and see a void surrounded by a disk composed of coronal streamers, ionized gases streaming along magnetic lines. Mr. Davis captured a solar prominence, which is described as “pinkish red arcs of plasma” by National Geographic.

For me, the most moving experiences included the collective gasp at first viewing – a feeling of being united in marveling the cosmos – and then the “diamond ring,” or the moment when the sun appeared to emerge from behind the moon.

The view of totality made me think a bit of the Grand Canyon – how pictures just cannot do it justice, that only upon standing on the rim can you grasp the vastness and beauty. So too was the total eclipse. Not only was it something pictures cannot adequately convey, but the eclipse also evokes a feeling, almost spiritual, of beholding something much grander than yourself.

As soon as the sun was blazing again, we started to pack up, feeling, somehow, that viewing the eclipse was a bit like getting on the best roller coaster of all time that you can only ride once every seven years or so. But still really wanting to ride it again soon.

On the way home, we planned our next total eclipse viewing: Monday, April 8, 2024. Perhaps we’ll see you there.