I watched from the beach near Benicàssim, a town north of Valencia along the eastern coast of Spain — looking inland over a small airfield. Paragliders drifted above in slow arcs, while families and knots of amateur astronomers spread across the sand, tripods angled to the west.

My friend Aaron Ricadela and I had settled on that stretch only that afternoon and chosen it for its sight line. As we waited for the eclipse to start, it struck me that the name Benicàssim, which means “sons of Qassim,” had a history that was related to the moment. The sons of Qassim were a Berber tribe that settled this coast in the eighth century, part of the wave of conquest that made Spain, for several centuries, the most astronomically literate corner of Europe. Medieval Islamic scholars were among the first to treat solar eclipses as data rather than omens.

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The Arab astronomer Al-Battani used eclipse timings to catch an error in Ptolemy’s earlier model of the sun. Ibn Yunus, working in Cairo around the year 1000, logged eclipses so precisely that American astronomers like Simon Newcomb were still drawing on his records nine centuries later.

There were thousands of people gathered on the beach, and the atmosphere was that of a beach party. This was the first total eclipse to cross Spain since 1905, and many in the crowd had never seen one. Someone had set up inflatables of astronauts and American Apollo rockets; there was a tent where the local planetarium was projecting the eclipse on a big screen.

The first strange thing that happens during a total solar eclipse is not the falling of darkness but the transformation of light.

As the moon’s shadow advanced to cover the face of the sun, the Mediterranean afternoon lost its warmth by degrees. The light turned metallic, almost silvered, as if someone had drained the color from the air, and shadows sharpened into an unfamiliar crispness. Then the sun narrowed to a crescent, and then to nothing at all.

The sun’s corona glowed as the moon completely blocked the sun during the totality phase of the eclipse, as seen from a beach in Mallorca.JAIME REINA/AFP via Getty Images

Next was the famous diamond ring effect as the moon made its final move to cover the sun, and collective gasps went through the crowd. Aaron, who had come from Frankfurt to watch his first total solar eclipse, said he had never seen so many grown men exclaim at once. Beside me was a family from Florence. They fell silent at totality; the father, a few seconds in, let out a low laugh of disbelief.

Nearby, an older couple from Catalunya had set up beach chairs with the unhurried confidence of people who had done this before; the wife, noticing two young police officers on crowd duty, pressed eclipse glasses into their hands. It seemed wrong for the officers to spend the whole thing watching people instead of the sky, she said. The policemen tipped their heads back, and at totality, their amazement looked no different from anyone else’s.

Totality lasted about 100 seconds. The sun was by then only a few degrees above the horizon. It looked unusually large and deep orange, and the solar corona carried the warm cast of sunset rather than the stark white of a midday eclipse.

The world did not so much darken as invert. Deep twilight fell in an instant. The sun’s corona — the outermost part of its atmosphere — became visible, pale, and structured, its filaments traced by magnetic field lines reaching past the sun’s surface. Only during totality does the corona become visible; otherwise it is drowned in glare, present but unseen. Astronomers still don’t fully understand why the corona is so much warmer than the surface of the sun and during eclipses study it to better test their theories.

There is a reason people cross oceans for two minutes of shadow.

People observed the total solar eclipse on a beach in Mallorca.JAIME REINA/AFP via Getty Images

An eclipse is an astronomical event because of a strange celestial coincidence: The moon, only one four-hundredth as large as the sun but four hundred times closer to the earth, perfectly obscures the sun’s face. We know when the moon will block our view of the sun down to the second — this path had been charted months in advance, a 290-kilometer swath from the Arctic to the Mediterranean. The knowledge only magnifies the wonder. At one point a paraglider crossed directly in front of the eclipsed sun, suspended between two worlds, and a murmur of awe passed through the crowd.

I had seen totality three times before, the last time in Montreal in 2024, and knew roughly what to expect. But knowing changed nothing; I stood there both inside the moment and somehow watching myself stand inside it, aware that no screen could reproduce the temperature drop or the collective held breath released as one long exhalation.

Within minutes, the moon’s shadow started moving out of full coverage and the extraordinary became ordinary again. People compared photographs, folded their chairs, and began the walk back as the airfield reemerged in returning daylight. The Florentine family was already discussing plans to go to Egypt to see the next total solar eclipse. Perhaps that is the real gift of seeing an eclipse in person: For less than two minutes, nobody on that beach wanted to be anywhere else. They simply wanted to see the eclipse — and then, almost immediately, to go see the next one.