The ticking is loud, regular, relentless. People shift nervously, fussing with their telescopes, making small talk. Someone has a short wave radio tuned to a station in Boulder, Colorado, that broadcasts signals, providing the exact time, precise to the second. As the time grows closer, the small talk ceases. Finally, someone shouts, “First contact.” All in attendance know that the disc of the moon has begun to slide across the face of the sun and will ultimately blot out the light of the sun as the celestial dance leads to a total solar eclipse.

After first contact, no change is obvious and excitement builds slowly since it takes about an hour and a half for the moon to completely occlude the sun to give totality. In the meantime there is plenty to do with telescopes and cameras. As darkness begins to surround us, when only a quarter of the sun remains, planets begin to shine through the dim light. Someone shouts “There's Mercury,” difficult to see anytime because it is so close to the sun and lost in its light, or if visible at night, usually only shortly after sunset, and then only briefly to be seen near the horizon.

As second contact approaches, this time meaning totality, the buzz and whirl of equipment and the chatter between fellow observers grows into a crescendo. Someone shouts “Diamond ring,” as the last light of the sun shines brightly like a diamond solitaire on a ring. It is only a heartbeat until totality. Shadow bands from the ripples in the earth's atmosphere scatter across the ground beneath us. Shouts …