I did not remember anyone talking about waking us up at, what? 2 A. M.? 4 A. M.? 

But there was my father, shaking me awake hours before dawn on a weekday morning. 

In my torpor I figured we were going fishing, but the little voice in the back insisted and persisted in affirming that today was a school day and it would be highly unlikely for him to encourage us to play hooky.

By the time I was on my feet, shuffling to the living room, I saw that my mother had already awakened my sisters, who, equally perplexed, waited for me in the living room. We were too sleepy to speak or even grumble. The house was silent.

Our parents led us through the long kitchen and someone drowsily asked whether the Flor de La Medianoche (Midnight Flower) was blooming that night. A most reasonable question, which would unlock tonight’s mystery.

However, there was a difference: trumpets usually (always?) preceded the Flor de La Medianoche spectacle. Throughout the day, the talk around the camp, among children as well as adults, would reflect the excited anticipation of getting up at midnight to witness the event. We’d go to bed knowing that we’d be awakened to go outside and gawk at this magnificent, aromatic flower which buds at midnight. Sometimes, at that hour, we’d receive visitors who did not cultivate it but who enjoyed its beauty and would come over to celebrate with us. Photos would be taken. Other families around the camp who cultivated the flower, would do likewise. 

The flower not only blooms at midnight, but it also begins to die almost immediately. As I recall, this was a biannual occurrence. 

But tonight was different. Too quiet, for one thing. No excited talk the previous day, for another. It was as if the adults had thought about engaging in whatever it was that we were about to do, but did not commit, given the nuttiness of the hour.

My father held the kitchen door open and we all, no longer shuffling, marched out to the carport as he ordered us to get in the car. In our pajamas? Really? 

Mother and father said nothing or very little or very quietly or I was too sleepy to capture any conversation. We three children (at the time) just sat in the back seat as we rode along the familiar camp road out, past the club grounds, and to the alcabala (security gate) whose guard dutifully opened for us.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I recall is coming to Rankin Hill, a residential section of the labor camp (otro campo) with a clearing at the edge, which afforded an expansive overlook. As my father sought a space to park, we saw many (many!) people, from both camps, gathered there. Through the windshield we beheld the most spectacular constellation of lights, with a brightness that surpassed the moon’s, and an apparent proximity which felt as if we could reach out, just beyond the hill, and grab a handful of stars.

We walked, hurriedly, to the clearing; everyone knew everyone and greetings were continuously exchanged, but always the gaze, the commentary, the wonderment was towards the spectacle displayed against the tropical night sky. The brightness was powerfully magnetic, like a consuming fire which doesn’t allow you to look away. 

“Ikeya-Seki”, someone said. What? “Ikeya-Seki!” And what in the world is an Ikeya-Seki? A new constellation appearing next to the earth?

It was a magnificent comet, discovered by Japanese scientists in 1965, just a month or so before it became visible to the naked eye as it swept within 500,000 miles of the sun. This was brighter than Halley’s. I had seen photos of Halley’s. I had read about Halley’s. Halley’s was a good friend of mine. And this was way more impressive than Halley’s. 

Ikeya-Seki was confirmed to have been the brightest comet of the 20th century; indeed, of the past one-thousand years. Some called it “The Great Comet”.

Scientists tell us it was 10 times brighter than the full moon. From a child’s perspective, it seemed like another sun, only broken into  countless, infinitesimal pieces, with a 75 million-mile long tail that looked like a curtain majestically splayed across a massive night stage. From Rankin Hill, the comet shot downwards, with a tail stretching up into limitless space. We looked almost straight up, as if standing at the foot of the Empire State Building and looking up to try to see the observatory deck. The tail seemed to “hang” down from infinity, and lowering our gaze to behold it horizontally, we could see its width extending across, and its length dropping behind the jungle horizon. To say it dominated the sky would be the understatement of the ages.

Ikeya-Seki continued to own the sky throughout the month of November, 1965.

Seems that someone from the labor camp had called our parents and encouraged them to come, and to bring us along, as the sight was one for a lifetime. 

And that it was.

I had never seen anything like it; nor have I since. 

It’s due to return in about 1,000 years.