View from the Sun

By Nancy Koan - I’m not usually the type who likes weddings. My own or others. I’m a funeral kind of person. I find people much more honest in grief than in the joy so often displayed at matrimonial ceremonies. That being said, there was one wedding I didn’t want to miss: the marriage between the sun and the moon, a solar eclipse, August 11, 1999. As I’d been living in England for the summer, the natural place to witness this event was the southwest coast, Cornwall country. Two and one-half minutes of totality were promised—a darkened sky in the middle of the morning. Though that might not sound like such a big deal in usually overcast Britain, it would in fact be be very special. Birds, momentarily confused, would stop singing as if night had fallen. And if the astrologers were correct, a grand cross configuration of outer planets would usher in a slew of strange pre-millennial energies. Plus, the “powers that be” were warning people that Southern England would turn into a huge mess with enormous crowds, lack of food and water, and anarchist riots. That was my idea of an experience.

Armed with a second-hand tent, air mattress, special viewing glasses, and the optimist’s mandatory bottle of sun block, we made our encampment near St. Just. Originally named after a Cornish giant with a seven league boot size named Uist, the Church threw in the saint to pacify themselves and Emperor Justinian while at the same time, attempting to accommodate the old religion. Sainted or not, it rained horribly the first night. My partner, Andy, and I decided that an inexpensive bed and breakfast was in order. After all, this would be the last eclipse of the century, and rheumatic attacks were not going to spoil it. Not surprisingly with all the rain, we found a place called Noah’s Ark.

“A total eclipse of the Sun is one of the most awesome sights in nature,” said the British Museum lecturer. We had been told that ancient people regarded the eclipses with fear and even after Ptolemy showed their true cause, the eclipses continued to inspire terror. The ancients believed it was the devil’s handiwork. Apparently, on arriving in the New World, humanitarian explorer Christopher Columbus tricked the natives with his deep understanding of the science and pulled off a dramatic move with the aid of the celestial bodies. As the skies darkened and then relit, the poor souls believed that Columbus was the true god. We wondered how the hordes of expected anarchists could possibly upstage a piece of theater as spectacular as this natural event. It didn’t take long to find out.

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