A not-so-perfect Storm ...

What on Earth had brought us all into this weird situation? Normally Cruceros Princesa was using the Sarape in the calm waters well inside the Bahia de Banderas, a deep bay facing Puerto Vallarta (»PV«) in the Mexican state of Jalisco, »for people who love having fun,« as their flyer says. But this was not a normal day: On this Monday, June 10, 2002, the region just south of PV was to witness a particularly rare annular eclipse of the Sun, right at sunset and with an especially narrow ring of the Sun left by a Moon almost covering it. Hundreds of eclipse chasers of all levels of seriousness had descended on Jalisco and many had at first spent the previous day scouting for suitable landbased observing sites.

With the Sun just a degree or so above the horizon, those were surprisingly hard to find in the mountainous landscape of Jalisco which is mostly covered by dense forests. This we learned during an entertaining as well as frustrating 7-hour-drive around the countryside in a rented minivan: We, that is Olivier Staiger from Switzerland alias Klipsi (whom I shared a room in the La Jolla de Mismaloya with, together with David Makepeace from Canada alias Eclipseguy), the U.S. astronomer and eclipse guru Jay Pasachoff, two Japanese from the Live!Eclipse project and myself.

The only paved road from PV to the South (number 200) bent away from the coast well north of the Northern limit of annularity, there was no road directly along the coast in the annularity zone and only a few beaches that could be accessed in principle - after driving for hours over sometimes steep dirt roads and occasional river crossings. Sometimes the exciting landscape had reminded us of the Central American jungle, further down South more of Costa Rica's Guanacaste province where ½ year earlier another annular eclipse had taken place. While desperately lacking in suitable locations for observing a horizon eclipse, the region was astonishingly rich in wildlife, such as swarms of big crabs crossing the street or a large vulture taking off with a long white snake.

A particularly beautiful beach below a high plateau just coincided with the intersection of the center line and the coast near Punta las Peñitas, but one would have to drive back some 3+ hours in total darkness after the event. (An expedition from the Astronomical Society of Guadalajara planned to do exactly that and was camping here already since the 8th.) A few similarly suitable beaches had been located between the center line and the N limit by other scouting expeditions as we learned during a big pre-eclipse party in downtown PV the night before the event, but neither of them was any more accessible. Soon the tables were filled with detailed maps and GPS readings; opinions were divided on whether going there was worth the risk.

Plus there was other news, already on CNN since the 8th: We had suddenly been served a formidable adversary - with the name of Boris. Granted, this was about the beginning of the rainy season in Mexico's mainland, but why did this Tropical Depression (briefly upgraded even to a Tropical Storm) have to form just now and just a few hundred kilometers down South from our location? Computer models showed it moving North at a slow pace - in principle it could even hit us directly. While there had been a beautiful sunset visible from the PV area on the 8th (the eclipse would have been perfect then!), the Sun was visible only partially for two minutes on the 9th - though just precisely the two minutes of annularity the next day, 8:32-34 p.m.

From satellite images and forecast models it was obvious now that the 10th would be a very cloudy day, but as on the days before there was also a good chance that something would become visible in the West just around sunset. Three options were now on the table: stay right in PV for a deep partial eclipse w/o the ring ever closing, drive to one of the beaches in the zone of annularity and then back at night - or go into the promised zone onboard a ship! Several offers in this respect had been advertised widely in PV's hotels and newspapers, for 350 to 500 Pesos (or $U.S. 35 to 50) p.p., unlimited drinks included. With the uncertain cloud situation ahead and the impossibility to chase after cloud holes on land, with so few spots where the Sun would be visible at all, the seabased option grew more popular by the hour.

The morning of the 10th was surprisingly clear, and the zenith Sun (we were at 21° N!) burned relentlessly onto the heads that many of the eclipse chasers were still scratching at this time. Get a jeep and drive out after all? Or book a ship? The offer from Cruceros Princesa (available thru several resellers) already looked the most promising as they had the biggest vessel and planned to go beyond the Southern cape of the Bahia, to a spot about halfway between the Northern limit and the center line. It was the apparent flexibility in positioning and the expected comfort of a ship cruise that led many to eventually sign up for the Sarape cruise, some at the last minute. Pasachoff would be on board as an invited lecturer, too, so what could go wrong?

Around 4:30 p.m. PV time (which is equal to CDT or 21:30 UTC) the Sarape left the marina just North of the PV hotel strip, where the clouds had grown denser again. Almost immediately it dawned on the handful of hardcore astronomers on board, let alone the over 100 other passengers, that this was not going to be one of those idyllic eclipse cruises (on vastly bigger ships) that have become so popular for total eclipses in the 1990s: Even near PV the ship was rolling etc. a lot, and soon the first succumbed to sea sickness. Boris was waiting out there, the increasingly rougher seas reminded us continuously, and before long many passengers could be seen staggering around with black bags given out by the crew ...

But there was no turning back: Our »Boris Barf Boat«, as we would eventually name it, held a steady course towards the intended spot off Cabo Corrientes. After a while it was time for Pasachoff's lecture, probably under the most bizarre circumstances he ever had to deal with. A slide projector and a screen were installed in the lower deck (where in normal times a dance floor was), and somehow most of the audience made it through the presentation without throwing up (to fight motion sickness one usually fixes upon the horizon and not eclipse slides on a screen shaking with your boat). Slides from low-elevation annular eclipses in 1998 (in Malaysia) and 1992 (in Southern California; by the author) demonstrated that those spectacles can be seen. Sometimes.

All the while we made progress towards the Southwest, passing a few villages on the Southern coast of the Bahia and eventually crossing into the zone of annularity. Not a bit of the Sun was visible in the sky above us, but - as on many days before - there were clear patches just above the Western horizon: Just around annularity the Sun might pass thru one of these. But would one be able to enjoy the view? As the Sarape closed in on the Cape (»Cape Fear« in our parlance), probably going further towards the open sea than ever before, the waves grew in a scary fashion. Often water entered the spacious lower deck where most of the serious astronomers had gathered but thankfully drained away quickly. Most were still smiling at this point.

From a geometrical point of view, it would have been best to stop the boat some 5 km off Cabo Corrientes, turn the starboard side towards the Northwest and wait for sunset - but Boris had very different things in mind. The waves were so much heavier outside the Bay that the poor Sarape seemed to spin almost out of control for a few minutes after the engines were stopped. Without accelerating power of her own now, she was tossed around by the sea like some flotsam. And while the captain struggled to turn her around and head back into the Bay, many of the passengers went for the life vests (without any orders from the crew - either smiling as ever or totally seasick by now - to do so). And all the time the eclipse drew nearer.

After several scary minutes - that must have felt like hours to some - the Sarape was in somewhat calmer waters again, with the theoretical sunset point now on the lefthand side. By now the partial eclipse had begun, and after a while one could note indeed that it was somewhat darker than at the same time of day during the similarly cloudy day before. There were many gaps in the cloud cover, as demonstrated by fleeting crepuscular rays from which the actual position of the Sun in the sky could be extrapolated. But geometrical foreshortening reduced every actual window to the sky to just a few arc minutes height, it was now clear as well: There would be a partial ring for us, if at all.

As the Sarape, now with some real damage, was slowly crawling back to PV, the Sun just missed one of the better gaps - and then, at just about the right time, it really happened! From one second to the next a shockingly bright point of light appeared in a lower gap, followed seconds later by another smaller bright dot one solar diameter to the left of it. They were two short segments of the off-center annulus into which the Sun had shrunk, for our current location very close to the Northern limit. Even seasoned eclipse chasers were stunned by the beauty of this fleeting »partial annular eclipse« that hovered in front of our eyes and cameras for maybe a minute, only obscured now and then by a particularly high wave crest.

Many of the passengers on the upper decks were already asleep after the nautical adventure so far or too seasick to risk a few, we were later told, but the »real« astronomers were elated. There was hollering and and cheering all around as cameras snapped and video tape recorded the amazing view that had been so hard -and outright dangerous - to reach. Soon the brilliant dots of light vanished again, one by one, with one briefly reappearing once more in an even lower cloud gap. With that the show was over, we were high-fiving each other and wondering aloud how little of an eclipse one could see to still »see« it. And Jay Pasachoff and I resolved to count this one as a success in our personal statistics (I thus have 4 annulars out of 5 tries, plus 9 totals out of 10).

It was now 8:40 p.m. (1:40 UTC on June 11), and the skies darkened rapidly. Had this all been real? I was forced to instant-replay my shaky video of the event several times, for the other chasers as well as a crew member who had missed it. With somewhat calmer waters now it was also finally time to check out the bar on the middeck that had withstood all the drama (in contrast to a small nearby shop whose glass boards were in ruins; no one was hurt in that incident, fortunately). We helped us to a couple of Tequila Sunrises (how fitting) and »Sol« beers (the ubiquitous »Corona« just wouldn't have been right for an annular eclipse) and eventually made it back to the marina after 11 p.m. On disembarking, I congratutaled some crewmembers on an »outstanding experience« - I truly meant it, though they may not have bought it ...

Epilogue

The area newspapers on the 11th (see the clippings) didn't carry any photographs from these lucky spots (though one promised them for the June 12 edition), only partial phases from elsewhere (esp. the U.S.) and a closed ring from much further up the Zone, apparently in the Marianas. In one way Boris had gotten us, but then again it had turned a short Mexican astronomy trip into a truly unforgettable nautical experience that now makes me relate much more to the movies mentioned above ...

First posted on June 15, lead quote added, typos corrected June 18, 2002. Links to reports and pictures from this eclipse can also be found in the header of the Cosmic Mirror # 239!