Almost certainly, more people watched the total solar eclipse of 1999 than have seen any other such phenomena since the dawn of time. The moon shadow crossed the Atlantic from a point east of Cape Cod, Mass.–glimpsed only by an occasional ship and those who had paid top dollar to watch it in the Concorde–and then made landfall on the Scilly Isles, which guard the English Channel. The shadow then raced over heavily populated parts of Europe, Turkey, Iraq, Iran and Pakistan before crossing India and finally vanishing in the Bay of Bengal, a little more than three hours from its first appearance. The show seemed to have a special significance for the spiritually inclined. Druids hugged rocks, trees and each other in Cornwall; huge crowds gathered in Reims, France, whose magnificent cathedral lay in the path of totality; the pope had two looks at the eclipse, first from Rome, then from a helicopter on his way to his summer residence at Castel Gandolfo; in Israel, Orthodox Jewish rabbis donned funny-looking glasses just like everyone else; across the Muslim world, special prayers were said in mosques.
Not everyone saw the same thing–much of Western Europe was cloudy, while there were terrific, unobscured views of the sun farther to the east. Sailors on Lake Balaton in Hungary got a spectacular look at the corona, while some reports suggested that the very best views of all were in the wild lands of eastern Turkey. Wherever they were, those watching the eclipse enjoyed one of the modern world’s great shared experiences. In the weeks leading up to Aug. 11, countless millions became familiar with eclipse terminology–first contact, bands of totality, Bailey’s beads (the last flashes of light before darkness). And if Britain was a guide, the eclipse continued to dominate conversation for days after the sun resumed its appointed course. Strangers asked each other, “How was it for you?” as if the whole country had been involved in a gigantic lovefest.
Naturally, killjoys did their best to spoil the fun. Some clerics in the Islamic world advised the faithful to avoid the eclipse entirely; governments across the path of totality warned everyone to be careful of their eyes. Britain’s chief medical officer, indeed, said that the only safe way to watch the eclipse without risking blindness was on television–a bit like saying that mute adoration of the Venus de Milo should satisfy male carnal desires. In the west of England, local newspapers swung giddily from one mood to another: first the eclipse was going to be a disaster because too many tourists were coming, then because too few were, then because the weather wouldn’t cooperate.
When all was said and done, and hundreds of thousands across Europe and Asia were stuck in traffic on their way out of the band of totality, everyone forgot about the things that had gone wrong. They planned their trips to Angola and Australia for the next two chances to see a dawn rise in the west (in 2001 and 2002) and mutually agreed: the great eclipse of 1999 had been just awesome. Really, really, brilliant.
