How clearly I remember the 1991 total solar eclipse that swallowed up a bright Hawaiian sunrise, turning it into darkest of night.
It was amazing. One minute the morning sun was rising out of the sea filling the sky with pink streamers of light, five minutes later it was pitch black and the stars were out, twinkling high above.
An eclipse doesn’t fit into your world view, morning can’t turn into night. But it did on July 11, 1991. I was there with my friend Pete, waiting for the show.
We were sitting on the side of a Kapoho cinder cone at 7:40 in the morning, gazing out over Puna, when suddenly the sea faded into darkness, the land disappeared and the moon came out, right after sunrise.
As I gazed up at the night sky seeing the Big Dipper and the Pleiades, I gladly took a swig of the strong drink my friend Pete passed to me. We gazed at each other, then up at the stars, and took another drink.
In that dark dawn weird things began to happen.
At sunrise you always hear a symphony of birds chirping and screeching and roosters crowing. But on this morning, as the black curtain moved across the sun, the chattering birds and roosters turned suddenly still.
An eerie silence settled over the land: It was pitch black and silent at dawn.
Shortly before the eclipse, though, dogs began flipping out. Their simple brains knew something was amiss, so up and down the Red Road from Waa Waa to Pohoiki they started howling like the end of the world was upon us. But when it got dark, they joined the birds in complete silence.
They weren’t asleep, they were scared, hiding under their houses. Unlike humans, they didn’t know what, exactly, was happening. Even we humans had a vague concept of what was going on: The moon was passing in front of the sun or some darn thing.
But sitting on that hill, seeing the stars shining above in this wondrous event, basking in the dignified silence, I looked down and saw cars driving by with their headlights on, horns were honking, people were yelling and going nuts. Humans, always the party animals.
Eventually the dark shadow left and it was bright morning again. The birds were singing, roosters started crowing madly, dogs barking like nothing had happened. We stood up and walked down the hill with another story to tell.
A funny thing, for how sudden, silent and simple it was, the eclipse accounted for some big business.
Hotels charged extra. They had vacation packages and handed out those little cardboard thingies to use to view straight into the light and lack thereof. The Mauna Kea Hotel was packed, people had paid untold bucks to see the show. But above the hotel it was cloudy, and when it came time for the big moment, all the poor guests saw was a fuzzy blur.
Three miles away at Hapuna, it was clear and everyone there saw the eclipse for free, just as me and my buddy Pete did, swilling on some good stuff while sitting on a cinder cone in Puna.
Who says Mother Nature doesn’t have a sense of humor?
Dennis Gregory writes a bimonthly column for West Hawaii Today and welcomes your comments at makewavess@yahoo.com
