At eleven in the morning, Vega beach, in eastern Asturias, is much more crowded than usual.
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There is mist. Lastres, 21 kilometers away and usually visible from here, is hidden this morning. It is hot. On the sand, the walls built the day before to stop the tide from rising still stand.
—Will it be seen? —asks a lady.
—The weather in Asturias is a lottery —they answer her.
A group of friends settles on the sand.
—The week this eclipse has given me. Like where we are going to see it, if the glasses were good, if we had to come early… —says a girl referring to her partner.
—We came listening to Total Eclipse of the Heart in the car… —answers a friend, raising the stakes.
A boy reads Morir en la orilla, by Leonardo Padura, sitting on a folding chair.
—My circle that no one can enter! Unless you have the code —announces a girl from the center of a huge float.
The code, in case you are interested, is “mom and dad”. She has not specified if it is together or separate, nor if it distinguishes uppercase and lowercase.
From the meadow bordering the beach comes the mooing of a cow.
At 1:05 p.m., the beach is filled with umbrellas. On the horizon, the silhouette of Lastres appears again.
—Nothing will be seen here —says a boy.
—And with that negativity, even less —replies his girlfriend.
They start opening the Tupperware and sandwiches appear. Lots of omelette, lots of chicken, and lots of breaded pork loin.
—If it doesn’t clear up soon, you’ll see what a rush at the last minute —comments a man.
At three in the afternoon, Lastres disappears again behind the mist.
The clouds have taken on a grayer tone.
—It’s still going to rain… —predicts a woman.
A lady passes by on the beach talking on the phone.
—No, no, they drowned.
She doesn’t seem especially worried about the eclipse.
Three girls chat with their feet in the water.
—It’s a historic day, isn’t it? —says one.
—The historic thing is that we’re going to spend a whole day at the beach —answers another.
—Do you think the eclipse will appear in Science books? —asks the third.
The woman on the phone continues with her own thing:
—One day I said: Enough, we have to have the party. And let my sister come if she wants to tell me no…
A lifeguard explains to a group of children the dangers of the Portuguese man o’ war next to a specimen stranded on the sand.
The woman ends the call, gathers her things, and leaves.
—My kids are scared. They say they won’t look at it in case they go blind —says a man.
—Well, almost better. The other day I read about a girl who went blind from looking at an eclipse when she was seven and didn’t realize it until much later —answers a woman.
A small gathering forms on the shore.
—Well, all this about the eclipse doesn’t matter much to me —says a mother carrying her eleven-month-old daughter in her arms.
—Even if there are clouds, does it also get dark? —asks a young woman.
—I think so —opines a man.
—They say the temperature drops twelve degrees —adds another.
—I should have brought the fleece —answers a woman, alarmed.
A girl reads Hamnet in digital format.
—Did you remember the glasses? —asks a woman.
—Yessss! —answers her partner, giving the impression of responding to a question asked many times.
Early in the afternoon, disappointment begins to spread. Phones spread the news: weather apps and forecasts announce that clouds will persist on the coast.
—How do you see it? —asks a boy.
—Bad.
—What time do we set as the limit to move?
—I’d stay here already…
—Well, I prefer to go home to watch it.
He shows her the phone. The app assures that it will clear up there.
A man reads El legado de los espías, by John le Carré, under an umbrella.
—From seven on, you can’t look at the Sun —warns a young man.
—Well, first we’ll have to know where it is, because it can’t be seen —they answer him.
On a beach where there are usually many boards, there are hardly any surfers in the water.
—Is the sea strange? Calmer? —asks a girl.
—And the atmosphere. There’s something strange… —answers a friend.
The cows in the neighboring meadow have disappeared.
—As soon as the eclipse starts, football is over —announces a father to his children.
The ball escapes toward the shore. A couple walks by the water. He goes ahead to kick it back.
—You were dying to kick it, huh? —she says affectionately.
A runner passes by.
At seven, discouragement begins to spread.
—The beach is very beautiful. But we won’t see the eclipse.
A girl barely contains her disappointment.
—Well, not seeing it in a place where it was going to be seen is also special —her mother comforts her.
Human figures begin to appear on the hills surrounding the beach. Also on the terraces.
—But do we have to put on the glasses or not? —asks a waiter.
At 7:23 it starts to drizzle.
—Where are the kids? Make them put on the glasses even if there’s no Sun —orders a mother.
—Can you imagine? The blind generation —jokes another.
—How much longer? I’m already a bit fed up with the eclipse —adds a third.
From the speakers of a restaurant, coincidentally, Antes que ver el Sol, by Coti, plays. Then comes Cien gaviotas, by Duncan Dhu.
—The Sun is coming out, the Sun is coming out! —shout some children.
It’s a false alarm.
A girl passes by with her phone flashlight on so people can check how the light would look through the glasses.
The DJ gets excited. Now 19 días y 500 noches, by Joaquín Sabina, plays.
—I’m not going to see anything, but maybe my wife will, she’s taller than me… —says a man, provoking a collective laugh.
Many connect their phones and follow the eclipse through live broadcasts.
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At 8:26 it gets dark.
The Asturias Anthem played with bagpipes sounds.
At 8:29 the light returns.
—Maybe we’ll be luckier with the one next century —comments a lady.
—Yes, but we’ll see that one somewhere else —answers her husband.
—That’s for sure —she closes.
In the background, the silhouette of Lastres remains blurred behind the mist.
