Total Solar Eclipse 2006
From SkyInsight
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by Joe Rao
As I write this from my home office in Putnam Valley, New York, it all seems fantastically odd that just over 48 hours ago, I was in southern Turkey near a stretch of beach along the Gulf of Adalia, witnessing my eighth total solar eclipse. For me, this was truly whirlwind affair, as I didn't make the decision to go until less than two weeks ago. It was after I had received E-mail messages from Michael Gill (moderator of the SEML/Solar Eclipse Mailing List) and my friend, Sam Storch, that I was tipped-off to a tour that would depart from London, England the morning before the eclipse . . . arrive for an overnight stay in Turkey . . . see the event and would then return to London later that same day. In theory, all I would need to do would be to somehow hook up with the tour, by flying from New York to London . . . and then after the tour ended, return to New York. After ruminating about the possibilities for a few days, I finally "pulled the trigger" on Saturday, March 18 and made all the necessary reservations. I was very lucky in this regard, since just a few hours later the British tour was completely booked-up!
On Sunday evening, March 26 I flew out of JFK Airport and arrived at London's Heathrow Airport the following morning. I then caught a bus which took me to my hotel, just on the outskirts of Gatwick Airport (where the British tour would depart the following morning). I spent the rest of Monday resting up; the weather in London was terrible with showery, heavy rains and gale-force winds. I was told by the locals that the United Kingdom was experiencing a severe drought and this was their first significant storm in many weeks. Naturally, it coincided with my first visit to the British Isles!
Early Tuesday morning, at dawn, I took a cab to Gatwick and met up with the other participants of the eclipse tour. They numbered about 350 in all and I took note of the fact that most consisted of families, since there were a number of young children being led around by their parents. We all crowded like sardines, into a Monarch Airlines Airbus for the 4-hour flight down to Antalya, Turkey. We were all in good spirits, however, and much of the plane ride was spent conversing amongst ourselves about the big event the following day. Many were from London, and for the most part all were expressing their dismay about being clouded out of the August 11, 1999 eclipse which passed over parts of England. Not a few, however said that despite the dismal conditions that obscured their view of the eclipse, the effect of the oncoming darkness was still " . . . most impressive." So for most of the passengers, this was going to be their second eclipse.
Meanwhile, I was wearing my "lucky eclipse baseball cap" adorned with buttons from my seven previous totalities (plus one annular). I may have cruddy luck with meteor showers and lunar eclipses, but I was 7 for 8 with the Sun. Not a few people expressed disbelief of the number of solar eclipses that I previously chased down; and they were absolutely dumbfounded when I told them that my numbers paled in comparison with people like Glenn Schneider and Craig Small, who have each seen more than two-dozen.
Not a few of the passengers onboard had traveled to see the annular eclipse last October in Spain. One guy said to me that he thought the annular was "A ripping good show; a most spectacular sight," and expressed the hope that tomorrow's total eclipse would turn out at least equally as good. My response to this gentleman (and all the others who were impressed with darkness that fell on the clouds in 1999) was plain and simple:
"You ain't seen nothing yet . . . believe me!"
We arrived at Antalya Airport we were met by sunny skies and mild conditions (a very pleasant change from the dreary conditions we left behind in London). I took note of the fact that it was exactly 24-hours before totality and if the eclipse were today, we would have seen it under perfect conditions. Would these conditions continue through tomorrow? Cumulus clouds were building up over the Taurus Mountains to the north, but were far away from the Sun and thus were of little concern. Later, at an Internet cafe at our hotel, I checked out the weather on a number of different web sites and came to the conclusion that at worse we would have nothing more than some scattered high clouds during the eclipse. I spent the rest of the day and much of the night checking out all of my notes and equipment.
On eclipse morning, I arose to watch the sunrise, but I was also very fatigued; the rigors of an 8,000-mile trek across eight time zones in less than 60 hours was now taking its toll. Even after taking a shower and having breakfast I was still dead tired. On the bus en route to our eclipse site in the town of Side, I even dozed off a couple of times. But as soon as we got off the buses and started setting up under Sun-drenched skies (on the grounds of the Papillion Muna Hotel, near the eclipse center line), the full import of what was about to happen hit me: In less than three hours we were going to witness a Total Eclipse of the Sun! I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline and immediately perked right up and started setting up my cameras. For viewing shadow bands, I spread a large, white towel on the ground . . . not really needed however, since the patio floor where we were setting up was itself whitish-gray.
First contact arrived on schedule at 10:38 UT, with the first tiny nibble out of the Sun's lower right limb becoming plainly evident through eclipse glasses a couple of minutes later. As the partial phases progressed, the sky illumination gradually began to diminish; with about 50-percent coverage, a cool breeze began to blow and the excitement . . . and tension . . . began to mount. About ten minutes before totality, some scattered cirrus clouds began moving in from the west.
With five minutes to go, I called attention to Venus, well down below and to the right of the Sun and about 15-degrees above the horizon. With about 50 seconds to go to totality, I started seeing the corona through the viewfinder of my camcorder. If there were shadow bands, I totally forgot to look for them.
Looking up I saw half of a solar halo above and to the Sun's right. It reminded me of a similar pre-totality view that I had in Montana in 1979 and alerted everybody to watch the halo . . . "it might briefly flash red during totality." If it did, I never saw it, for I now had my 7 x 35 binoculars trained on the vanishing Sun. I never got the sensation of an oncoming shadow; rather it was as a dimmer switch was rapidly being turned down; the weakening sunlight seemed to "rush out" as if being immersed in a vacuum. A spectacular, long-duration (12-second) diamond ring lead us right into totality at exactly 11:55:00 UT.
The inner corona was (as the Brits would say), "brilliant!" and appeared almost like a fat, perfectly symmetrical ring of white light encircling the black disk of the Moon. The rest of the corona faded outward for nearly two solar diameters. It was of the typical solar minimum variety, with broad equatorial streamers on both sides. I spent about a minute snapping landscape views. Overhead, the sky appeared a deep cobalt blue, but around the horizon, especially to the west, colors resembling burnt orange or iodine were evident. Venus was now shining brilliantly and about midway between it and the corona I also caught a brief glimpse of Mercury.
I had lost track of how far along we were into totality, when I caught sight of what I first perceived to be a "bead" of yellow-orange chromosphere emerging into view on the Sun's lower right limb. I called out to get ready for the appearance of the terminal diamond ring, but instead this "bead" turned out to be a large prominence which quickly emerged into view about 50-seconds before the end of totality. About 10 seconds before the end, the chromosphere revealed itself as an orange arc of light along the Sun's lower rim; the end was heralded by a two bright beads of sunlight which coelesced into one: a "double diamond ring!" Totality lasted exactly 3 minutes 46 seconds.
After totality ended, a couple of people broke out bottles of champaigne and we all raised a toast to the emerging Sun. Most started breaking down their equipment during the waning partial phases. A lunch was then served and shortly after last contact we were all herded back on the buses, to be whisked away to the airport for the flight back to wet and windy London. Yesterday (Thursday), I flew back to New York. Interestingly, because Europe already went on Daylight ("Summer") Time last weekend, the time zone difference between New York and London was six hours, and my return flight lasted 6 hours 45 minutes. So I left London at 3 p.m. BST and arrived back in New York at 3:45 p.m. EST. Needless to say, my body clock still doesn't know what hit it!
As I was arriving home, just after sunset, I caught sight of the thumbnail crescent Moon, less than 36 hours old, oriented like a thin smile low in the western sky. I got out of the car and appluded it, and muttered: "Ya done good!"
So that's my report.
Hectic? Yes.
Tiring? Most definitely (16,000-miles in less than 4-days).
Would I do it all again? In a heartbeat!
The next eclipse finds the Earth's shadow first touch Earth over far-northern Canada at sunrise on August 1, 2008. I'm hoping to catch it, perhaps airborne in a jet aircraft, but one way or another I plan to see it. And forget about any talk about my missing it.
I'll have Nunuvit! :) Joe Rao
