I’m not an umbraphile; I don’t have the will or the funds to globe-trot every six months during eclipse seasoning, attempting to catch the best clear-sky view of the Moon’s shadow. And despite not trying, I’ve been in the presence of four solar eclipses: the annular eclipse of May 10, 1994, the total eclipse of August 21, 2017, the annular eclipse of October 14, 2023, and the total eclipse of April 8, 2024.
May 10, 1994
I was nine years old, and it was a school day. Based on my research, the path of annular totality passed over most of Toronto at about 1:24 pm, but my school was several kilometres north of its reach. My only actual memory is going outside during the afternoon recess and taking brief glimpses towards the Sun through a pair of cheap Robocop-inspired sunglasses with blinking red LEDs on the front. The lunch ladies—our term for the break supervisors—kept telling us not to stare at the Sun, or we’d go blind.
August 21, 2017
Although this was a total solar eclipse in some parts of America, it was merely a partial eclipse in Toronto, with a maximum solar obscuration of approximately 70% at 2:32 pm. My only memory is taking Porthos, my camera, and several neutral-density gels to the dog park and taking photos of the crescent-shaped sunlight filtering onto the soil through the foliage.
October 14, 2023
This annular eclipse crossed the United States but was merely partial in Toronto. I was cycling home from a group photography lesson when the partial eclipse achieved a maximum local obscuration of almost 27% at 1:09 pm. That amount wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing, either; that afternoon was hazy, so the slight decrease in sunlight gave the impression of a December afternoon when the Sun is far lower in the sky. I didn’t have eclipse glasses, so I made do with watching the funky-looking shadows.
April 8, 2024: total eclipse in Ontario
News of a total eclipse crossing through Ontario filtered into my newsfeed in early February. It was slightly disappointing that Toronto would be just outside the path of totality, but that path was a manageable distance away. After ordering four pairs of super rad eclipse glasses, I suggested Lily and I make a day trip to Niagara-on-the-Lake with friends to view the spectacle.
Word of the eclipse started filtering into the mainstream news in late February and early March. Out of an abundance of caution, school boards across southern Ontario shifted their staff professional development days to coincide with April 8, ensuring curious children wouldn’t go blind on their watch. Public authorities between Hamilton and Niagara Falls were predicting an influx of millions of regional tourists. And finally, days before the eclipse, Niagara Region announced a state of emergency in preparation for the event. It was rescinded an hour after the eclipse had passed, with authorities crediting (or blaming) lower-than-expected eclipse attendance throughout the region on the announcement.
After considering the attendance estimates and imagining all those people driving along the QEW—often packed without the added stimulus of a once-in-a-lifetime event—our foursome agreed to an alternate location with a similar totality duration: Sandbanks Provincial Park in Prince Edward County.
About a week before the eclipse, it became evident that the weather had no intention of cooperating. Meteorologists predicted a low-pressure system would blanket much of southern Ontario with clouds. I had initially assumed the early forecast would prove wrong, but as the day approached, it remained stubbornly cloudy. The entire point of schlepping into the path of totality versus settling on 98–99% solar coverage from home is to view the Sun’s corona and prominences. But an overcast sky nullifies that experience, rendering the added effort pointless. The secondary effect of experiencing brief darkness doesn’t require being in the path of totality. Sure, it’s slightly darker darkness, but is it worth the travel time?
Ultimately, we decided to make the trip. We were committed, had post-eclipse dinner reservations in Wellington, and, to a certain extent, hoped to get lucky. On the morning of April 8, meteorologists forecast that regions east toward Kingston could experience high-level cloud cover, potentially giving way to hazy views of the eclipse.
On the drive from Toronto toward Prince Edward County, we experienced numerous breaks in the clouds. The route through PEC was downright sunny. The clouds returned as we approached Sandbanks Provincial Park. We also discovered that our original destination, Dunes Beach, was packed, and the park’s wardens were directing overflow visitors toward Outlet Beach. But our foursome was secretly a fivesome because we had brought Porthos, and, unfortunately, the park doesn’t permit dogs on Outlet Beach.
We circled back and found parking in an empty lot near the park gates. There was a waterfront parkette that was not associated with the Provincial Park, about a ten-minute walk down the road. We gathered our things and started the hike. While waiting to cross the road, a man on a scooter pulled up beside us, complimented our dog, and casually suggested that instead of walking ten minutes to watch the eclipse at a public beach, we’re very welcome to enjoy it from his private beach just two minutes away. The four of us exchanged conferring glances and agreed to his offer. He introduced himself as John, explained where to go, and rode ahead on his scooter.
After settling on the beach, we resigned ourselves to the clouds. The partially eclipsed Sun peeked out a handful of times, but not during the most intense portion of the eclipse. The last couple minutes before totality were genuinely wondrous to behold. No amount of research and graphs prepared me for the experience of witnessing just how quickly the darkest darkness falls. The experience of watching darkness encroach at an accelerating pace upon such a vast outdoor space was uncanny. I had forgotten to bring my light meter, so an objective light reading was out of the question. It reached a level of darkness equivalent to astronomical twilight. However, unlike during twilight, where a slight gradient of brightness emanates from the west and darkens towards the east, the entire visible horizon had a warm sunset glow during totality.
As the Moon’s umbra swept past our point on the beach, the Sun’s light ramped up in brightness as quickly as it disappeared just minutes earlier. Then, about 45–60 minutes after totality had passed and we were in the car driving toward Wellington for dinner, the clouds started to part, and the sun beamed down on us to demonstrate that nature has a sense of irony.
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