Observing the Lunar Eclipse in South Florida (Long, cloudy)

Observing the Total Lunar Eclipse in South Florida, or an Exercise in
Optimism.

Date: 8 November 2003.
Time: 17:08-21:30 EST
Location: West Palm Beach, South Florida Science Museum.
Seeing: n/a
Transparency: very little

Well, sometimes the pursuit of amateur astronomy leads into other areas.
There's a saying among the members of the astronomy club of which I am a
member (the Astronomical Society of the Palm Beaches), to the effect
that, "in this hobby, you've got to be an optimist."

Roland Culberson first pointed this out to me back in September, when I
showed up at the first of the Free Friday events at the South Florida
Science Museum. During September and October, the Museum offers free
admittance on Fridays, and invites club members to set up telescopes on
the back lawn, where any museum guest who is so inclined, may peruse the
assorted optical instruments pointed at various parts of the heavens.

This year, of course, most of the scopes, and hence most of the club
members' minds, were pointing toward Mars. But on that first night, most
scopes were pointing nowhere, since those who needed to polar align
couldn't see Polaris, and those who didn't need to polar align still
needed something to point at! Nevertheless, a nice crowd of optimistic
club members showed up, as did a surprising number of optimistic
visitors, all drawn to the possibility of a heavenly show. And, between
cloud bouts (fortunately for all concerned, no cloudbursts!), their
curiosities were satisfied or stimulated, appetites whetted or
sharpened, and the stars (and clouds) rolled on, unaffected.

This sequence of events continued through much of the series, with
progressively less cloudy nights alternating with actual rain, when very
few club members showed up (so I hear--I myself stayed away from those
nights).

Last night, however, separated the true optimists from the rest of the
crowd. The Science Museum had scheduled a total lunar eclipse, with real
green cheese and the enthusiastic participation of the Astronomical
Society of the Palm Beaches. Everyone was invited to share in the fun. I
photocopied some maps of the moon to pass out, brought my Sky & Tel with
its chart of lunar features to observe and try to estimate brightnesses
for, and generally did my best to prepare for an instructive, as well as
entertaining, evening.

However, as seems to be her wont, Mother Nature seemed displeased.
Apparently she takes umbrage (get it?) at the museum, where much of her
handiwork is on display, apparently taking her cooperation for granted.
It rained all day in Fort Lauderdale and Boca, prompting those of us who
live to the south of the museum to consider not showing up. Frequent
visits to noaa.gov showed, however, that the cloud cover was patchy, and
the rain seemed to be confining itself to a line somewhat south of West
Palm Beach. Taking Roland's dictum to heart, I resolved to remain
optimistic.

So I loaded my parallelogram binocular mount and my Fujinon 10x42
binoculars into the van, cajoled my lovely wife into accompanying me,
and trundled off to the back lawn of the museum, where we were met with
a grand total of two other club members (Jim Mayes, the coordinator of
the public events, and Roland Culberson, who seems to show up for
everything, rain or shine -- apparently that's how he became VP of the
club in the past: he was absent when they nominated him, and absent when
they voted, and now he shows up for everything to make sure nothing like
that ever happens again!). Jim and Roland, proving that, though they may
be optimists, they are no dummies, were as realistic in assessing the
skies as I was. Neither of them had bothered to set up more than tripods
yet.

However, the curtains in the skies kept drawing back and falling,
revealing now half of the lovely Cassiopeia, now the lucida of either
Lyra or Cygnus (there were so few holes in the clouds I never could
determine which). Things, it seemed, might not be so bad. And sure
enough, at one point those who needed to actually caught sight of
Polaris, revealed for long enough to take a fix and align their mounts.

And over the course of the evening, several other members rolled in,
until eventually we had at least four telescopes and four pairs of
binoculars on mounts, plus several freehand pairs of binoculars (by the
time all the club members who showed up were there, I was too busy to
count, being surrounded by optimistic visitors eager for a glimpse of
this exciting spectacle). The one participant who counted, however, was
nowhere to be seen as the penumbral phase was scheduled to begin around
moonrise, 17:27 EST. The clouds to the east were thick, although at the
zenith (after it got dark enough, of course) we could make out several
of the brighter stars.

The moon, though, remained shy.

Her first appearance was at 18:33 by my watch, which is set every night
to the signals from the NIST time center in Boulder, Colorado. However,
there was no need for such precision last night. The umbral stage of the
eclipse began with very little fanfare, noticed by a club member named
Bill, who brought a pair of 20x80 binoculars on a homemade tripod and
pipe-fitting mount. The tripod looked sturdy enough to hold at least a
10-inch reflector, and Bill said that he usually uses it for a
wedge-mounted telescope.

Throughout the evening, the foreground clouds conspired to blot out the
moon, making it difficult, at best, to determine any advancing stages of
the eclipse, other than the fact that the southern limb never seemed to
completely dim, while the high clouds made it just as difficult to tell
whether the moon was actually dark, or merely experiencing a cloudular
eclipse. But as totality faded, so to speak, the brightening of the
moon, combined with its higher elevation and subsequently reduced
cloud-caused dimming, made it retrospectively obvious that this eclipse
was in fact caused by the Earth's shadow, and not the clouds in our eyes.

The local news team must have been as optimistic as we were, because
they sent a camera crew out to blind us. A newspaper photographer
shooting stills also did her level best to cause children, teetering
near the edge of a very expensive refractor, to tear down the whole
setup with her disorienting flashbulb. Nevertheless, I appreciate the
efforts to publicize the event, so I can't complain too loudly. And, I
think it's safe to say that a good time was had by all. Despite the lack
of cooperation at the weather department, I got to know some of my
fellow club members that I hadn't known at all before, and scores of
visitors (I'd guesstimate 150 or more) got to view a total lunar
eclipse, at times.

However, the throngs died away rapidly after totality, despite the
fascinating (and s-l-o-w) re-emergence of the bright moon, beginning
with the southern limb, and continuing on, I must suppose, until it was
once again near magnitude -12 or so (with the moon near apogee, I
imagine it's not as bright as its maximal near -13). I, however, must
only suppose that Luna completely re-emerged, since by the time that
event would have occurred I was at the local diner, sharing the stories
with a few of the club members, united by our now-confirmed optimistic
stance. And on the drive home, the clouds tightened up, until we were
driving through a good little cloudburst just as we rolled into Boca!