Day of the Monarchs

Lee Rail - Photo by G.R. Merrill

Just going with the wind while sailing that day was grand. But the wind suddenly stopped and the sky above the Chesapeake ceased to breathe. I was stuck in heat and stillness, my boat rocking in the small swells, while I got into a total snit.

A butterfly flying near the boat caught my eye.

She flitted past the boat and was gone. Another passed by, and soon another, and again another. They were Monarch butterflies in flight, all traveling southwest. Their migration was a part of their extraordinary odyssey of more than seventeen hundred miles, beginning as far north as Canada and extending as far south as Texas and Florida. I couldn’t take my eyes from them.

Some monarchs reached heights half as high as gulls I saw circling overhead. The Monarchs would exercise a short, nervous flapping of their wings, would abruptly freeze, hovering and then descend through the air as smoothly as milkweed seeds glide on a zephyr.  They knew just how to glide. Unlike other windborne insects I’d seen - bugs like wasps, Japanese beetles, ladybugs, dragonflies, and moths - these butterflies sought no refuge on my boat. They remained airborne, intent on their journey, tireless.  The monarchs were destined for their mysterious rendezvous.

A couple sported with each other. One would dart over the other in short, jerky movements, feinting and dodging like boxers.  It wasn’t combative, though, more playful, even affectionate I thought. Were they Monarchs in love? In any case, they were in high spirits. For two hours they flew by my stalled boat. I lost track of time. I forgot my impatience with being becalmed. I was wholly in the here and now, transformed. The show went on.

As the gliders passed high overhead, the sun illuminated the brilliant orange and the deep black scrollwork on their wings like the illumination of incandescent lights kindle the stained glass of Tiffany lamps.

A few, like tiny crop dusters, made low sweeps, close to the water, only inches above it. The sorties were nerve-racking for me because I was sure they’d wind up ditching themselves in the water. Not one ever did. Knowing your limits is a lifesaver.

A primal force as old as life itself guided these tiny pilgrims in flight. The cloudless beauty of the day and the sheer wonder of how nature assigned such a hazardous journey to such willing but vulnerable creatures seemed like a brief excursion into the depths of creation, the mystery of life. When the last butterfly disappeared in the distance, I felt sad that I could not join them.

Sometimes, when you’re stuck, out of control and in a snit, whole new worlds can reveal themselves to you.