Where Butterflies Go

There’s always butterflies out on the open ocean. Had you noticed? Whenever Dad manages to coax me into a morning of fishing (through a combination of promises and guilt [1]) there are always stray butterflies flapping to avoid collision with oncoming swell. They don’t appear to be aviation experts, i.e. they seem pretty shit at flying. They’re sporadic. They fly in much the same way as I imagine gaseous particles to bounce around void space, on vectors chosen by chance. Perhaps this is why they end up kilometres out to sea where no leaves can be found for laying or nectar sourced for consumption, because the sum total of all their random flaps has put them out into this large, unprofitable expanse—an unlucky but likely location. 

But they must have some control, right? It’s not a miracle of probability that you see butterflies perched on upon flowers so frequently. There’s several species of butterfly that migrate across countries, one that travels 15 000 kms, from Africa to Europe and back. But the butterflies off the Australian coast are not migrating outward. We’re an island, god dammit! They have nowhere to migrate to. I see the Varied Eggfly of browny-black colour with pale blue thumbprints on its wings. There’s Painted Ladies like Pollock paintings splashed with black, orange and white. And then there’s this bland butterfly, the Yellow Migrant, whose tone of yellow is frail and plain. I see one butterfly for every kilometer of travel. I’m unsure if they see me.

Their lifespans are meagre, a few days to a few months at the most. So why waste time out here flapping their lives away? They seem incessantly exhausted, like every flap drains them of all their remaining energy, but gives them just enough height and freefall-time to recoup to prepare for their next—maybe final—wingbeat. And the saddest part: they’re always alone, lost wishes failing to fufil their destiny. Land is a slither on the horizon, and their prospects for survival are near to none.

So it must be shameful in butterfly culture to flop dead upon a grassy field or forest floor; they refuse to be compared with such lowlifes as wilted leaves, flower petals or feathers loosed from ruffled birds. Each individual butterfly has a responsibility to its race to uphold the perception of untainted beauty. And this is the reason they flee oceanward pre-death, to a Valhalla amongst the swell. And those who fail are cursed to become thistledown, loosely drifting forevermore.

While this is all whimsical and enticingly poetic, it’s likely untrue. There’s a rational answer to to our butterfly question which can be summarised in a word: wind. A light breeze even. An eddy or puff. They’re shit at flying; it wouldn’t take much.

Now, imagine you’re a caterpillar, and for weeks you have to suffer the pain of eating bitter leaves and walking in what I take to be the most energy inefficient way possible. Then, when you’ve converted all that foul nutrient into fat, you spit on yourself, roll gollies in the back of your throat until they’re sticky, and then linch yourself up with your own stringy stuff. Your inner-self pushes outwards until your skin thins, stretches, splits, and you roll up your old body like an elastic-less sock. Then you wait out more weeks in a claustrophobic cocoon, one, two, four, before splitting another shell, dislocating and relocating those now-winged shoulders and squirming your way out. Then—finally—all this pain becomes worth it because now you’re fucking gorgeous, and now you can fucking fly [2]. You flap, elated. You flap again, but half a meter too high. A gust of wind grabs your feather-light body, manhandles you and spits you out at sea. You ask, ‘Was this metamorphosis worth the trouble?’ No, of course not. You should’ve stayed indoors, avoided fishing, and played Go Fish instead.