Gilligan's Island Or How We StoppedbyEdgeoftheAbyss©
How We Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Island
Call Me Ishmael
Except From The Log Of The M.V. Minnow
September 26, 1964
Departed port of Hilo at 1000 hours with five passengers and two crew members, bound for Kailua Kona where passengers will disembark after a three hour tour. Making 10 knots, wind from the northeast at two knots, light chop, weather fine, but with low clouds on the northeastern horizon. ETA 1300 hrs.
Jonas Grumby, Master M.V. Minnow
The skipper of the forty foot excursion boat M.V. (Motor Vessel) Minnow, Jonas Grumby, retired Senior Chief Petty Officer and late Boatswain of the U.S.S. Short Splice (AK 249), stood by the helm sighing to himself as he watched his first mate and only crew member, Gilligan, getting tangled up in the anchor line... again, as he tried to cast off the bow line. They'd five passengers this trip, about as good a haul as usual, though sometimes they had eight or ten. But what the hell, it was off season and it was enough to pay the bills, plus a bit more. Fortunately the passengers were aft under the canopy, watching a cruse liner clear the harbor, so didn't see Gilligan unhook the anchor line to untangle himself, then leave it to cast off the stern line. As it turned out, neither had Grumby, because at that moment he turned away to check that the stern was clear of the boat tied up aft of them.
While the weather appeared fine, Grumby was somewhat uneasy that he hadn't had time to check the weather report, what with Gilligan forgetting to load the extra food and water for the trip and having to do it himself. But what the hell, it was only three hours after all, what could happen?
Off Kāhilipali point, an hour and a half into the voyage, the low clouds Grumby noted as the Minnow cleared the harbor rapidly overtook the little boat. The two knot breeze from the northeast freshened to more than forty knots, then within five minutes the seas increased from a light chop to over fifteen feet. In minutes the little boat was driven out of sight of land and out into the wide Pacific, drifting to the southwest.
For three mortal days Grumby and Gilligan fought to save their boat and passengers from the raging sea. Grumby had managed to rig a sea anchor, a jury-rigged second one actually, as Gilligan had deployed the first one without tying it off. So at least now they were in less danger of being swamped by the towering seas, plus were able to conserve what fuel they had as the sea anchor kept the bow of the boat pointed into the waves without having to use the engine. Grumby used all of his considerable knowledge gained from a lifetime spent at sea to keep the boat afloat and everyone alive, though hardly comfortable. At dawn of the second day the wind veered to the north northeast and increased to fifty knots, causing their drift to change from southwest to generally south, deep into the open Pacific.
* * *
Sometime after dawn of the third day I slowly swam up to consciousness and found myself laying in the cockpit of the Minnow, and to a massive headache. In fact I ached allover; not surprising considering the beating the storm had given me, given all of us. I made it to my feet, swaying gently, and looked about groggily, then bellowed. "Gilligan!" I immediately regretted this as I clutched my head at the pain. No answer. Fuck, I thought, I should have at least had the fun of getting drunk to feel this bad.
I looked sharply around, finally noticing the lack of movement.
Damn! I thought. We're aground. Lifting my bleary gaze I saw that to the southwest there appeared to be a green hill or small mountain, rising from a small palm and brush covered, roughly triangular plane. Over the tops of the trees and tall coconut palms I could just see two shallow valleys meeting at the apex of the plane, maybe a quarter mile from the beach. To the north, west, and south there was ocean, as far as the eye could see.
About a hundred or so yards off the beach we were grounded on was a low coral reef, inclosing a calm, shallow looking lagoon. It appeared to be low tide as there was several feet of reef sticking above the water, though the storm swell was still breaking on the ocean side of the reef. Enough of the swell was getting through the reef so that two foot waves were rolling up the white sand beach the Minnow was on, but not reaching the beached boat. From my vantage point I couldn't see a passage through it anywhere, which gave rise to a horrible suspicion. I undogged the hatch to the hold as quickly as I could; heaving the hatch aside I dropped into the engine compartment with a grunt. And found myself standing on oil covered sand. The Minnow no longer had a bottom. Hell, it looked as if the keel, along with about a foot or so of hull had been planed off when we were driven over the reef. It was also glaringly obvious that we no longer had an engine, shaft, or propeller, all of which appeared to have dropped out when the bottom was removed. To make things perfect the fuel tank was ruptured and empty, all and all we were well and truly fucked.
Well, I thought philosophically as I grunted and heaved my way out of the hold, at least we didn't sink, that was the most important thought to hold onto, especially when I break it to the passengers. Now, where the hell is Gilligan?
A New Beginning
Of course it's a desert island, don't you see the fucking camels? Got here on bloody driftwood, they did.
Billy Bones to his 'very good friend' Chaz... mina
2nd Month – Day 1
A full month has passed since that fateful day the passengers and crew of the Minnow were wrecked on an uncharted island in the course of its three hour tour. An island the passengers have since christened 'Gilligan's Island'; a name given not so much in tribute as in blame.
It had begun to dawn on the everyone, well the Skipper anyway, that rescue may take a bit longer than originally thought. And that, conceivably, they may have to rescue themselves. This was because as the Skipper was setting up the shortwave radio and testing it, Gilligan came running up to help, tripped over his own feet, and knocked the powered up radio into a tidal pool, soaking it in sea water and shorting it out. Which, according to the Professor, wrecked it beyond repair.
Once the shock and subsequent mental lethargy caused by the storm and shipwreck began to fade, tensions start to build among the passengers. Additionally, a mild form of posttraumatic stress disorder started to manifest itself, so the 'tensions' are surfacing in a variety of unlikely ways as personalities, and suppressed, as well as not so suppressed idiosyncrasies and personal foibles started bubbling to the surface. Gilligan in particular became the focus of mild hostility as the passengers slowly came to realized that his incredible ineptness, thoughtlessness, and downright stupidity were the root cause of their predicament.
The first day on the island the Skipper and Gilligan built, and moved into, a lean-to on the beach so that the passengers could use the three cabins aboard the grounded Minnow. The Howells, of course, taking the largest for themselves. With no fuel to run the stove they also set up a cooking area, but everyone continued to eat on the boat. No other arrangements were made as everyone expected immediate rescue. However, as the days turn to weeks with no rescue in sight, the need for more permanent housing, better cooking arrangements, and finding new sources of food to eke out the rapidly dwindling supply carried by the Minnow had become pressing. Although, fresh water was not a problem as there was a stream coming from the peak and across the little level area they were on.
So far the castaways had only wandered around the small flattish area between the lagoon and the peak, gathering food as they stumbled across it. Plus, of course, what they could glean from the sea. But now the Skipper and the Professor began organizing regular exploring parties, consisting of the Skipper and Gilligan, the professor and Ginger, and Maryann with the Howells, so that they could get a better handle on the islands geography and resources.
The first day of exploration saw all of them make the trek to the highest point on the island through the tangled tropical vegetation, following the relatively gentle slope from the beach. Once the top of the peak was reached they saw that the coast of the island was completely vertical, except for two valleys which plunged steeply from the peak to the sea and had boulder strewn beaches. The beaches, however, were only a few square yards in size, smothered in foam from the constant surf.
After a week of exploration a picture of the island's resources began to emerge. As is usual for a Pacific island it is an extinct volcano with a small fringe of reef. The flat bit they had fortuitously grounded on had formed when a side of the peak collapsed into the sea, thus giving the coral a shallow enough base on which to build a reef. This allowed a lagoon to form, with decomposed coral carpeting the floor of the lagoon and the beach as fine white sand. Two valleys had been cut into the loose rubble after the crater collapsed and were much shallower and more flattened at the bottom than the others. At the same time those streams brought down a lot of fine material which had helped smooth out the rubble and created some very good soil.
2nd Month – Day 8
Roy Hinkley (who the others now called 'The Professor' since he seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of almost every subject, from the best way to purify water to how to build a, relatively, waterproof hut) entered the new clearing dragging another load of green fronds, cut from the numerous coconut and thatch palms that thickly dotted the comparatively flat area they were building their huts on.
The Professor had drawn up some plans for huts based on the materials they had found on the island and what tools were available from the Minnow's tool chest. The frames were made of the heaviest, thickest bamboo they could find, about six inches in diameter, which were cut from the thick stands that choked one of the shallow valleys and some of the ridges.
Using a hatchet and machete, these extremely strong bamboo poles had been felled then cut to length with the saw. The corner posts had been driven as deeply as possible into the bottom of four foot deep holes which had been dug into the rock studded soil, braced with coral rubble, then filled with soil and tamped. Then the corner posts were notched so the cross pieces could slot into them, making a quite strong, flexible joint after being tied together. The sides of the huts were panels made of woven grass and palm frond leaves. These panels were then tied to smaller bamboo poles which were used as studs, leaving openings for a door and windows, each of the windows had their own panels, hinged at the top, to use as shutters.
The roofs had a framework of bamboo to which a layer of striped branches was tied. Green palm fronds were then tied to the bamboo and branches until a mat about a foot thick was formed. As they had no nails everything was tied together with palm leaves, vines, and thick twine. The Professor had shown them how to make the twine, first by striping the fibers from suitable vegetation, letting it dry, then rolling it into suitable thickness on a bare thigh. Unfortunately, it turned out one of the vines had been somewhat poisonous, or perhaps Ginger was allergic. In any case, she had come down with a bad case of hives, so had been unable to help for the last week or so as she lay in her bunk on the Minnow, skin pink from the last of the calamine lotion, trying not to scratch; her hands incased in thick cloth work gloves to keep from making scars when she did.
* * *
I stopped and wiped the sweat from my forehead, gazing at the half completed hut we were building for the girls. I'll build my own, I thought. It'll be larger and a damned sight sturdier and more waterproof than the ones this pack of mental defectives are building. The Skipper, who was standing next to the unfinished hut, called out to Gilligan, breaking my train of thought.
"Better get a move on, little buddy. We need to finish the roof of the hut before dark. I don't like the looks of those clouds." He called, staring with a furrowed brow at the clouds starting to build beneath the slowly descending sun. Glancing in the same direction I calculated we still had about three, maybe four hours of daylight, but it looked like rain might come in before that, so we did need to hurry to get a roof on the girl's hut to keep the dirt floor dry.
"Gilligan, get those palm fronds from the Professor and hurry!" The Skipper yelled. Getting no response he looked around, frowning, then walked over to the other side of the hut as I followed him still dragging the damned fronds, then dropped them on the pile next to the hut. And there was Gilligan, standing behind Maryann again. I watched the Skipper as his frown deepened to a scowl and he started forward, then stopped, glaring first at Gilligan then Maryann.
Maryann was stranding on the third rung of our makeshift ladder, the eave of the roof at her waist. She was bent over, stretched out across the roof holding a palm frond so Mr. Howell could tie it to the ridgepole, the fronds making a still somewhat thin overlapping mat that drooped over the eave pole, which was about seven feet above the ground. This was to allow for a floor to be raised a foot or so above the ground and was to made with planks from the defunct Minnow. Today she was wearing a small pair of tight red shorts that seemed to be painted on and, probably because of the heat and humidity, wasn't wearing a bra under her white blouse, which she had unbuttoned and tied like a halter, just under her small, apple shaped breasts.
Every time she stretched out to hold the frond in place so Howell could tie it off, the shorts would bunch up into the crack of her ass. She would then take one hand off the frond and tug futilely at the hem of her shorts, causing the frond to slip. Gilligan had wandered over and put his nose a few inches from her ass, drawn to her like a bee to a flower, with much the same instinctive idea I suppose.
I figured the Skipper and Gilligan were, perhaps, a bit more than employer and employee. In fact, last week on the beach, before the moon set, I had seen the Skipper and Gilligan coming out of the lagoon after a swim; both were nude and the Skipper had his arm around Gilligan's waist. Just goes to show that it's true what they say about old sailors, they'll fuck anything.
The Skipper shook himself out of what ever his thoughts were.
"Gilligan," the Skipper called. Again, no response.
"GILLIGAN!" he bellowed, taking off his hat and slapping his thigh with it. Gilligan turned his head and gave the Skipper a vacant stare. "Gilligan, Goddamn it. Quit fooling around and get your ass over here. Now!"
"Right away, Skipper." Gilligan said and turned to run to the Skipper. The only problem being that Gilligan had moved quite close to the ladder to look at Maryann's ass, so when he turned he tripped and fell, taking the ladder with him. Maryann pitched forward, tearing a hole in the new roof and ended up draped over the eave pole. As she fell she hit her head on one of the roof poles, gashing her forehead. She squealed and started kicking her feet, trying to free herself. Inside the hut Howell was treated to an eyeful of jiggling tits as he looked up her blouse, totally ignoring the blood trickling down her face and dripping from her chin.
"Mr. Howell, help me. I'm stuck. I can't get off," Maryann squealed.
"Don't worry, Maryann. I'll come around and get you down. Just stay there and don't move," I heard Howell say as he hurried through the door.
We all arrived at Maryann about the same time and stopped for a moment gazing at that round, perfect ass. Well, at least Howell and I did. The Skipper was busy helping Gilligan to his feet and brushing him off.
"Stay still, Maryann. We'll get you down," I said, "Gilligan, you take one leg, Skipper, you the other. Mr. Howell, you get underneath her and I'll get her from behind." I had to suppress a smile at that image.
We took our positions. The Skipper and Gilligan each grabbed a leg and pulled them apart, giving us an even better view, especially of her prominent camel-toe. Howell stooped down and placed his hands on her bare stomach as I grabbed her by the waist.
"Okay, when I count to three, pull her down," I ordered, "One...Two..."
I never got to three. Gilligan, as usual, screwed up and pulled early, messing everything up. As Maryann slid off the pole Mr. Howell's hands slipped up her blouse and found a breast. I let my hands slide down to cup her ass as she came off the roof, knocking me down and landing on my crouch, my hands cushioning the impact of her luscious ass on my hardening dick. Howell, refusing to let go of her breast, fell on top of both of us, twisting around as he fell and ending up between her legs. Then the Skipper was pulled on top of all three of us, his crotch pressing against Howell's ass. Gilligan, the cause if it all, just stood there, looking at us vacantly, no doubt wondering what had happened. I swear to God, one day I'm going to kill that fucking moron.
* * *
I landed with a soft thump on the Professors lap, somehow his hands had moved from my waist to my butt and I could feel his dick getting hard and starting to poke into the crack of my ass. Mr. Howell had a death grip on my right boob, his thumb on the nipple, and I could feel his dick hardening and starting to push against my coochie. When the Skipper landed on Mr. Howell it almost knocked my breath out. The Skipper had a funny look on his face and I could feel Mr. Howell pressing into me as the Skipper rubbed against his butt. Mr. Howell was looking at me but I couldn't see much because the blood was really in my eyes now.
Finally the Skipper rolled off Mr. Howell, who gave my booby a last squeeze as he got up. Then he and the Skipper helped me up off of the Professor.
"That's a nasty cut you have there Maryann." He said as he examined it. "Here, sit on the table while I clean it up and take a better look."
The Professor made me sit with my hips right on the edge of the table, legs dangling, then he stood between them and pressed his hips against mine. I could feel his dick getting hard again as he slowly rubbed it up and down as he washed the blood off. Then I yelped and jumped, really ramming my coochie against his dick as he put something on the cut that burned terribly.
"There, there Maryann, this will only sting for a moment." Then he put on a bandage. "But I'm afraid you might have a small scar after this heals though." My eyes started to tear up. Goddamn Gilligan to hell, I thought.
"Oh Professor do you think so, I don't want to be marked for life because... because of..." And I looked over at where Gilligan was standing, watching us in his creepy way.
"Now, now Maryann, you're young yet, just eighteen, and cuts like this often heal without any mark when one is young, and if there is a scar it will very probably fade to nothing in a year or two for much the same reason."
"Oh thank you Professor! I squealed, hopping off the table and on to him, my legs locked around his hips as I hugged him. His dick was still hard as I pushed my coochie into it as hard as I could and rubbed, just a little.
2nd Month – Day 20
Well it took a while but I was able to build my hut the way I wanted. It took as long as it did because Gilligan insisted on helping, that alone added an extra two weeks. Fortunately I was able to divert the little twit by having him gather grass, vines, and palm fronds, though less than half of what he brought in was usable. The Skipper was a much bigger help, harvesting bamboo, cutting it to size, and notching them with the saw, at least he was good for something. I was even able to put in a floor made from planks from the Minnow, it tuned out there was enough to make floors for all the huts. The planks raised the floor of my hut about two feet off the ground, rather than the foot or less of the others, with three solidly built steps to the ground. Now I just need to weave some soft reed mats to cover the rough planks. No land crabs in my hut at night!