Since the sun virtually disappeared on June 5, hidden behind an impenetrable pall of cement-colored clouds, Robert Skilling has tracked each overcast moment, anticipation building with each gray afternoon.
Peering out at the gloom from his perch at the Blue Hill Meteorological Observatory and Science Center, Skilling does not dwell on the canceled Little League games or postponed beach days.
Rather, he focused yesterday on the primitive, softball-sized glass sphere on the observatory's roof, a device that has burned lines on paper since 1885 to record nearly every burst of sunshine strong enough to cast a faint shadow. This month, the sun has been obscured by clouds more than in any other June in Skilling's 50-plus years of meteorology. With a little more than a week remaining, it is flirting with the all-time local record set in June 1903, when only 25 percent of the sun's rays penetrated the clouds to reach the Blue Hills.
Skilling has hard meteorological evidence of something that virtually every resident of the Boston region knows in their core: The sun has taken a hiatus, leaving the area with the dreariest June in memory.
Skilling looks at weather the way Alex Rodriguez looks in the mirror: He can't get enough. He revels in the data, celebrating the anomalous and basking in the extreme. That could be a frighteningly strong wind, a blizzard of snow, a torrent of rain. Now it's a depressing absence of sunshine that keeps him so upbeat.
He knows about this deficiency because of his glass sphere, known technically as a pyroheliometer, that has been on the roof of the observatory since it opened in 1885. (A few years ago the observatory replaced the original pyroheliometer when it was stolen by a college student who scaled the tower during a night of revelry. The original was recovered and kept as a model to show guests.)
The technology is as simple as burning a leaf with a magnifying glass. The glass sphere focuses the light and creates heat. The burn is recorded on green, rain-resilient cardboard that is curved like a banana to follow the trajectory of the sun. Each day someone changes the card and measures the burn marks.
Holding a stack of the used cards from June in his hand, Skilling traced the region's sunless misery.
"Three days in a row,'' Skilling said, flipping through unburned cards from June 9, 10, and 11. "This is what was making people feel bad.''
His other weather data bear it out: The dreariness has been compounded by a genuine coolness, with an average temperature of 59.8 degrees so far this month, making this the fourth coldest June since the observatory opened in 1885. Rain is also a half-inch above average, giving New England a summer chill more common in Ireland.
For those with weather-frizzled hair, canceled tee times, or washed-out weekends on Cape Cod, Skilling's excitement is probably a meaningless balm. But excited he is.
He has worked at the observatory since 1960 after winning a science contest at Hingham High School in the 1950s, an award given for the excruciatingly detailed weather records he kept for four years running. The observatory sits atop a narrow road that twists like a corkscrew up a wooded hill.
On clear blue days, when the glass sunshine sphere burns thick lines on paper, the view reaches as far as Mount Monadnock in southwest New Hampshire.
The vista yesterday afternoon, however, barely extended past the edge of nearby trees. Sheets of rain from an offshore gale gave it the feel of a remote wilderness outpost, not a suburban weather station just 7 miles from downtown Boston.
A few rickety stairs and a narrow doorway lead to Skilling's lair, a circular room housed in a three-story tower with the faint, musty smell of an attic. A tall, boxy machine flashed and beeped with red digital numbers while gauges danced from right to left. Three rolls of paper billowed from the machine onto the floor as needles furiously painted squiggly orange lines that tracked wind speed, gusts, and direction.
Within arm's reach are four antique barometers in a glass case. There are also digital temperature gauges, mercury thermometers, clocks for three time zones, and a half-dozen computer terminals. The curving walls have been papered with computer printouts and technical charts.
The small space fills quickly when buses bring students up the winding road. Skilling, wearing blue jeans and comfortable sneakers, answered questions with a grandfatherly charm, but he also moved strategically around the room to find counter space or a computer terminal to continue his work.
"I just bury myself in the numbers,'' said Skilling, a meteorological technician who holds the title of chief observer for the private nonprofit, which collects data for the National Weather Service.
Sipping milky coffee the color of those clouds, he pondered the impact the overcast skies cast on the lives of others.
"The sun will be back; we know it's coming back,'' he said. "The thing about New England that I've found is when it comes back and the pattern changes, it might even reverse itself and we end up with 80s and 90s for a few weeks.''
Contemplating the clouds again, he added: "But if we keep the record going, maybe it's a little more exciting for me.''
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