Chapter Eight

The Skipper speared a chunk of avocado and chewed it thoughtfully. The atmosphere at dinner was different tonight; much quieter and certainly less chaotic. Gilligan's usual foghorn yells across the table were now soft whispers shared with Mary Ann, and Ginger's sensual laugh was now a breathy chuckle reserved solely for the Professor. He never thought he'd miss Gilligan's noisy interruptions: "Pass the salt Mrs. Howell! What? Okay, pass the 'please', Mrs. Howell!" and "Hey, remember the time the monkey jumped on the table and stole the flower right out of Ginger's hair and then ate it?" - but tonight there were three separate and distinct conversations transpiring around the table, and not one of them involved him or required his input in any way whatsoever.

Captain Jonas Grumby ate his meal in silence, contemplating the undeniable fact that there were now three established couples on the island. He glanced away politely as Mary Ann placed a shy kiss on Gilligan's flushed cheek.

Three couples, and one giant gooseberry.

Gilligan stole an apologetic glance at the Skipper. His mouth tipped up in a bashful smile, and the Skipper smiled back reassuringly. Jonas didn't want to spoil anyone's fun. Far from it, in fact- he was mighty proud of the way Gilligan had grown up and found love, and thrilled beyond measure that he had found that love with Mary Ann, whom he had always thought would be perfect for the bumbling First Mate. But at the same time there was a wrenching sensation deep in his heart- a realization that Gilligan was slowly but surely setting sail on a course of his own, a journey that would take him into uncharted waters, with storms and swells that he would have to navigate alone, without the help of his former Captain.

Former Captain. Jonas blinked and shook his head to rid it of the uncomfortable thoughts that were swirling around. Don't be so melodramatic, you old fool, he told himself, sternly.

And Ginger? Sure, he'd once had quite a crush on the beautiful, flame haired actress. And who could blame him? As a young man he'd had his own Little Black Book full of phone numbers, with 'a girl in every port', as the old saying went. He had expected Ginger to fall for him the way previous women had, but it soon become apparent that her real interest lay in the Professor, and that her flirtations with the Skipper were just that- flirtations. Flirting came easily to Ginger, she flirted as naturally as she breathed; but when she looked at the Professor, her eyes lit up from within, her skin glowed like the petals of a translucent rose as her deepest feelings filtered to the surface.

There was no mistaking the look of love. The Skipper had seen it enough times on the tear-stained faces of the women he'd left behind as once again his ship raised anchor and sailed away into the sunset. What goes around comes around, he thought, smiling around a mouthful of baked clam. And even if he couldn't be Ginger's lover, she was still one of his dearest friends; he could still share a private look with her now and again in the safe knowledge that it would lead nowhere, except to make an old salt very happy for a few hours.

On the other side of the table, Eunice Wentworth 'Lovey' Howell was in her element. Her 'babies' were finally paired up, and what's more, they'd done it all by themselves! Well, with the help of those strange, glowing rocks, which were themselves 'children' of the one rock that Gilligan had found over by the volcano. This rock's mysterious powers had matchmade where Mrs. Howell had failed, bringing the four younger castaways together almost effortlessly. "Aren't they darling?" she cooed to her husband over the rim of her bamboo cup. "Aren't they simply just adorable? Look at Gilligan, I bet the stars are positively jealous of his twinkling eyes. And Mary Ann! It's the first time I've seen her so happy; the poor girl usually looks as if she has the weight of the world on her shoulders. And Ginger, oh la la! Hollywood's loss is the Professor's gain. She triumphs in her greatest role- that of a starstruck young lover. And our dear Professor, look at him, Thurston. Have you ever seen a man so deliriously in love? I doubt he'll be burying his nose in books for a long while. Why, he looks as if he just discovered the secret of the universe!"

oOoOo

Two miles away, the majestic volcano stood sentinel in the middle of the island, its huge and ancient heart thrumming in rhythm with the silent pulse of the cosmos. It had seen a lot of change over the last three million years or so. It had seen continents torn apart, close friends become strangers, love become hate, and hate become love. It had witnessed these strange two legged beings invade where they hadn't been invited, fighting off any others of their kind who tried to follow suit. It had shuddered with fear as its own kind were forcibly dragged from the nest to be scattered far and wide across the expanse of gleaming ocean, sputtering in vain, bellowing with impotent rage, as helpless against the whims of Mother Nature as a butterfly in a tornado. And it sighed. For where there had once been many, now there were but a few, clustered here and there, spitting hot tears into the sky, roaring with angry desolation, longing for the day when Mother Nature would change her capricious mind and bring them back together.

The volcano had been happy when these seven castaways had arrived on the shores of its lonely little island. They were not savage beings, intent on throwing living creatures into its gaping mouth. They were peaceful beings who mostly kept to themselves, and the ones that ventured further into the jungle did no harm to flora and fauna. Indeed, the one who read books was a friend to the flowers, and the one in the white hat had a kinship with the animals that the volcano had never seen before in all its millions of years. They collected ripened fruit and picked up wood from the ground, they did not trample or destroy. They harvested creatures from the sea, but no more than they needed, never the young nor the pregnant mothers. They put back to the earth what they had taken, and they never let anything go to waste.

The volcano was a benevolent being. It understood why the castaways were frightened on the day it began to erupt. They didn't realize it was a joyful celebration, it was the volcano's way of giving thanks because their presence meant it was no longer lonely. Ever since that day it had made sure not to send hot ash raining from the sky or flames belching from its belly. Instead, it had worked tirelessly to find new ways of saying thank you, of ensuring that they weren't afraid, letting them know how much it wanted them to stay. Once cooled, its ash made the land fertile. The volcano watched with pleasure as they harvested crops it had helped them to grow, and the book reading one would sometimes glance in its direction and smile, as if he knew.

It had taken a while of concentrated compression deep within the volcano's labyrinth of boiling, lava filled veins, but eventually it had succeeded in creating several precious gemstones that would not hurt or frighten these delicate, wonderful beings. These gemstones were infused with millions of years worth of knowledge, with all the power and goodness of the universe and all the colours that existed in every spectrum. These gemstones would unify where Mother Nature had torn asunder. If the volcano was powerless to reunite with its own kind, then at least it could do something for these two legged creatures who kept it company. It could try to bring happiness to the book reader and the one in the white hat, those funny adventurers who tickled its foothills as they climbed and explored.

The ancient, fire breathing monolith would do its best to ensure that the castaways never suffered millions of years of isolation and loneliness the way it had been made to suffer; and by creating happiness for others, it could perhaps find a little happiness of its own.

oOoOo

"I'm sorry we didn't talk much to you at dinner, Skipper."

The voice that floated down from the top hammock was genuinely apologetic. Skipper listened to the gentle creaking of wood and rope in the darkness and sighed again, for the umpteenth time that night.

"It's all right, Gilligan. I understand," he said, quietly. "Things are different now."

Gilligan lapsed into uncharacteristic silence and the Skipper fancied he could actually hear the machinations of the boy's mind as he struggled to think of something to say that wouldn't hurt the Skipper's feelings.

"I wish there was someone here for you," Gilligan said, finally. "We should have invited that lady aboard who turned up at the last minute."

The Skipper groaned in mock agony. "You mean that overweight chatterbox who wouldn't stop talking? No thanks, Gilligan, I'd rather stay single forever!"

Gilligan peered over the side of the hammock and even in the darkness, Skipper knew that the First Mate was staring at his ample belly.

"Okay, okay, she wasn't that overweight," he grunted. "But she was a chatterbox, and one chatterbox on the island is enough for anyone." He punctuated his sentence with a goodnatured poke in Gilligan's ribs, making the boy squeak.

"It's funny how things work out, huh, Skipper? You were always the one with a million girlfriends. I used to wonder what your secret was. I waited and waited to fall in love but it never happened, and I figured what was the point of asking a girl out if I just wasn't interested enough."

"You know, Gilligan, I'll make a confession. I know we used to rib you about that- we used to joke about whether you even liked women at all. But with hindsight anyone could see you were a better man than we were. You didn't love 'em and leave 'em the way we did, keeping scorecards and comparing notes, treating it all as a big joke. And now you've met the girl that's right for you, without having left a trail of broken hearts in your wake, while I lie here still wondering what love really is."

Gilligan was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, the Skipper could hear the shy smile cradling his words.

"It's just a nice feeling," he said, quietly.

The Skipper waited for more, but Gilligan had fallen silent again.

"That's it?" he barked, mock-sternly. "'It's just a nice feeling'?"

"Yep," replied Gilligan. "A nice feeling that makes you feel..."

"Don't tell me," Skipper said, wryly. "Nice."

"Yeah," Gilligan grinned. "Nice. Something wrong with nice?"

"No, Gilligan, there's nothing wrong with nice. It's very... nice. Nice, is what it is. Nice."

Gilligan giggled softly. "Yeah. Nice. Nice is nice. I like nice. I like it a lot."

"Nice," grunted the Skipper. "Love is nice. Trust you to put it so succinctly."

"So what?"

"Succinctly. It means... oh, never mind, Gilligan. It's late and I'm tired. Look it up in the Professor's dictionary in the morning."

Gilligan laughed again, a laugh full of warmth and affection. "There, you see, Skipper? You use all those big fancy words that no one understands, when everyone knows what the little words mean."

Skipper pulled his blanket up to his chin and gave a loud snort. "Go to sleep, Einstein," he muttered. "Just because you're in love now, doesn't mean you know it all."

"That's what she said," came the voice floating down from above, followed by a burst of childish giggles.

"Gilligan!"

"Sorry, Skipper."

"Go to sleep, Gilligan. That's an order. And don't talk to me again until morning!"

"Yes sir," laughed Gilligan, saluting at the ceiling.

oOoOo

The next morning dawned gray and gloomy. The castaways ate breakfast more hurriedly than usual, although not a single raindrop fell. By mid morning the Professor knew that it was going to be one of those unpredictable days where the clouds hung low and heavy, teasing the island with the prospect of a storm that may or may not come. The trees shivered nervously, the animals skittered from cover to cover, and the restless ocean waves became capped with galloping white horses, their churning hooves sending foam flecked spray across the rocks.

It was the perfect day for couples to retreat into the shelter of each others' arms. Even the Professor, who would normally be out checking his weather instruments, seemed happier to snuggle in the Supply Hut with his beloved Ginger. This led the Skipper to offer to check them himself, and even though the Professor assured him it wasn't necessary, Jonas Grumby found that he wanted to take a walk by himself, if only to escape all the canoodling going on around him. Ignoring the few mild protests directed at him from his loved-up friends, the Skipper slung a water pouch over his shoulder and left the clearing.

He walked deep into the jungle, lost in a myriad of thoughts. He recalled his Navy days, his youthful vitality, his belief that he could make the world a better place. He thought about young Gilligan, skinny young Gilligan in his slightly too large Navy uniform, sitting quietly in the corner of whichever bar they all happened to be in at the time. The girls would approach him the way they might approach a stray puppy sitting in the gutter. Cooing and laughing and wanting to pet his head. Gilligan could have collected all the women he wanted, if only he'd know it, Skipper thought with wry amusement. But then again, he wouldn't be the Gilligan we all know and love if he had!

Lost in a burst of sudden love and affection for his clumsy, awkward, but wholly endearing little buddy, the Skipper didn't notice the rock that had suddenly appeared at his feet until he almost tripped over it. He took a few stumbling steps forward, like a comedy clown, and then looked back at the thing that had impeded his progress. He returned to the rock and picked it up. Behind him, the volcano loomed, watching him silently as he turned the rock over in his hand.

The gloomy, gray sky made everything gloomy and gray. Jonas Grumby peered at the rock in his hand and frowned. It was just a gray rock, he thought, irritably. Just a normal, gray rock on a normal gray day. He was just about ready to pitch it into the jungle and forget all about it when the clouds suddenly parted and a ray of golden sunshine streamed down from the exposed sky, right onto the spot where he was standing. Slowly but surely, a feeling of pure benevolence came over him and he felt his cynical old heart surge with joy. The rock began to pulse gently in his palm, small sparkles of colour emerging at its core, winking and twinkling like newborn stars in a distant galaxy. After a few hypnotic moments of 'warming up', the rock started throbbing with light and colour, transfixing the sea captain so completely that he couldn't look away even if he wanted to. But he didn't want to- the rock was now glowing so beautifully with so many bright and shimmering colours that he felt as if it were the only thing in existence, the center of all knowledge, all feeling, all beauty, all joy, and all love.

Love.

That was the main feeling the Skipper was experiencing now. Love in its purest form. Love that asked for nothing in return, love that was endless, and endlessly renewable. The kind of love that the more of it you gave away, the more of it you had.

He managed to tear his eyes away from the rock for long enough to notice that the ray of sunlight seemed localized- it shone only upon him and the volcano, not half a mile in the distance. So close that he was almost in its foothills. Golden light dappled its sides, and in that stream of light flew birds and butterflies, seeking refuge from the dark.

"Well, I'll be..." the Skipper murmured, and he didn't even know why he'd said it. Something made him take off his hat and hold it against his chest. With his hat in one hand and the glowing rock in the other, Captain Jonas Grumby stared at the volcano and swore that he could feel it gazing back.

In the golden shaft of light that suffused the air between the Skipper and the volcano, a face seemed to emerge, flickering gently, like an old sepia film from the early days of cinematography. At first Skipper thought it was Ginger; there was the flare of red, the sparkle of green, the lightly freckled nose, the catlike, teasing glance that made the toes curl up inside his shoes. But then a name appeared, a name that he had long forgotten, but that seemed as familiar to him as the name of his own mother.

"Janice," he whispered. "Janice Kettle. Is that you?"

He had not seen Janice Kettle since he was nine years old. Janice Kettle, his best friend who was a girl, the freckle faced kid down the street who had moved away with her Air Corps family, breaking his little boy's heart beyond repair. He had forgotten completely how much he'd cried at the time, how his mother had comforted him with his favourite ice cream sundaes at the local steakhouse, how he'd eaten and eaten to mend his broken heart. At nine years old. Maybe he'd forgotten it because it all seemed so ludicrous, but now here she was, grown up and glorious, looking down at him from the sky. He blinked nervously, hoping that nobody could see him being a deluded, hopelessly smitten old fool out here on his own in the middle of a windswept jungle.

"It's me, Jonas," she seemed to say, although it could easily have been the deceitful cry of the wind. "There's still a big world out here waiting for you."

The Skipper felt a burst of warmth from the rock inside his hand and reflexively he looked down. When he lifted his eyes again, the image of Janice was gone, and the sun had once more receded behind the clouds. All that was left was the looming volcano, standing in endless silence in the middle of the island. He put his hat back on and patted it into place on his head where it nestled into his graying blond curls. Then he put both hands around the rock, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it.

"'There is no remedy for love, but to love more'," he smiled. And he fancied that the rock agreed with him, its bright colours tumbling around like flower petals on a summer breeze.

Jonas Grumby decided he'd had enough of walking for today. Because he knew now that there was nothing to escape from, nothing to fear. Love was never meant to exclude; the love that his friends had found would come just as easily to him if only he'd let it. He pocketed his rock, and with a last, fond glance back at the volcano, he began to make his way back to camp. And as he strode forward, he pulled his head up, yanked his shoulders back, puffed out his chest, and began to sing- loudly and lustily and at the top of his salt filled lungs.

"Haul on the bowline, our bully ship's a rolling,
Haul on the bowline, the bowline, haul!

Haul on the bowline, Janice is my darlin',
Haul on the bowline, the bowline, haul!"

The End