Disclaimer: Sherwood Schwartz caught the original wave, not me.

Gilligan's Wave

Men say it was a stolen tide

The Lord that sent it, He knows all

But in mine ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall

And there was naught of strange beside

The flight of mews and pewits pied

By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

-Jean Ingelow, "High Tide Off the Coast of Lincolnshire"

The subtle scent of vanilla and jasmine wafted on the night breeze as the island stirred in its sleep. From the distant beach the surf moaned a haunting lullaby. In the castaways' camp, in the shadows of the crew's hut, two hammocks rocked ever so gently, like boats on a calm sea.

"Skipper – why's it called cricket?"

"Gilligan…go to sleep."

"Why would they name a game after a bug?"

From his berth in the lower hammock Skipper Jonas Grumby resisted the urge to tip his first mate out of the upper one. He gave a great sigh, trying to hold back his frustration. It was like trying to stop a wave. "It's not named after the bug, Gilligan. At least I don't think it is. It's just got the same name, all right? It's kind of like baseball."

"Really?"

"Yes. Now look, I know you're all excited about Mrs. Howell's party and Mr. Howell's cricket match, but staying up all night talking about it isn't going to make next Saturday come any faster. We'll talk about it in the morning, all right? Now go to sleep!"

"Okay, Skipper," came the meek answer from above.

The Skipper counted. One minute, two, three…

"We used to play baseball all the time in the big diamond behind the school back home. Skinny Mulligan was the best catcher ever. I mean, Fatso Flannigan and Bobby McGuire and Jimmy O'Hara were pretty good, but Skinny Mulligan was the best of all. He never missed!"

The Skipper reached up and plucked at the arm above him. In a moment the guileless face of his first mate was looking down at him, dark hair framed in the white sailor's cap. "Gilligan, never mind about Skinny Mulligan, will you? Just go to sleep!"

"Sorry, Skipper." Gilligan rolled back, and his hammock swung a little more widely. The far off surf boomed a little louder in the stillness.

The Skipper shook his head. "Mulligan, Flannigan, McGuire, O'Hara and you. Your neighbourhood must have been a riot on St. Patrick's Day."

"Hmmm?"

"Never mind."

This time the silence lasted five minutes. Then…

"Those are pretty funny looking uniforms for baseball, aren't they, Skipper? They look like something you'd wear to a tea party."

"Gilligan…"

"Boy, Mr. Howell was sure excited when that trunk from that Indian ship washed ashore. I couldn't see what the big deal was: just a lot of white clothes and fat white sticks and balls. But Mr. Howell said it's a gentleman's game and they play it in England and all over the old British Empire. He said there was a whole set of polo mallets too, only we don't have any horses."

"Gilligan…"

"Gosh, those British people sure do get dressed up nice just to play ball. Won't those clothes get all dirty when we slide?"

"GILLIGAN!" The Skipper clutched the edges of his swinging hammock in frustration. Above him, Gilligan jumped. "Will you cut that out? And for your information, you don't slide in cricket!"

"You don't?"

"No!"

"Well, what happens if I'm running for home and I'm going to get tagged?"

"You're gonna have to run for home in a minute if you don't stop…" The Skipper's voice petered out as both sailors suddenly realized their hammocks were swinging wider than ever – and now the candle-holder on the table and the gourds on the cabinet were clattering. The deep rumble they heard now was clearly not the boom of the surf.

Gilligan clutched his hammock with white fingers. "Skipper – I'm getting seasick!"

"We're on dry land, Gilligan!"

"Then tell it to stop pitching and rolling!"

The bamboo cabinet toppled over with a crash. The Skipper and Gilligan held on for dear life as the tall poles that held their hammocks started swinging like windshield wipers.

"Skipper! This hammock's gonna capsize! I want my lifejacket!"

"Gilligan!"

"Skipper!"

Suddenly the ground heaved in a terrific upward thrust, popping the hammocks up like toast from a toaster. The Skipper landed first, hitting the ground with a tremendous "oof." He oofed again a few seconds later when Gilligan landed on him. Too terrified to move, the two held absolutely still as the little hut rocked around them.

When at last the tremors subsided and all was still again, Gilligan looked down at the Skipper and gave a great gasp of relief. "Gee, thanks, Skipper! You're as good a catcher as Skinny Mulligan!"