1978. The castaways have just been towed into Honolulu Harbor on their "huts-boat." But that's the only connection to Rescue from Gilligan's Island. There are no Russians following Gilligan. Herbert Rucker does not exist. Some of the castaways' relationships may not be the same. (Remember that they're all 15 years older! Gilligan is around 36).

Hurricane George

Gilligan squirms uncomfortably in his chair.

He coughs. Drops his napkin.

He glances at the Skipper. The captain is staring at him evenly, warning him.

Gilligan turns away, tries to casually lean his elbow on the table, but then remembers that Mrs. Howell told him it was bad manners and so he changes his mind, but it's too late. His elbow slips and his chin nearly hits the edge of the table. He flails for a minute, rattling the china and flipping his spoon into the air. It clatters onto the empty chair on his right. If Mary Ann hadn't gotten up to go to the ladies room it would have hit her square in the face.

From his left, Gilligan hears the Skipper sigh.

On the opposite side of the table, two pairs of eyes are watching him closely. The woman, approaching 60, beautiful in a wholesome yet strong way, is smiling gently. She looks amused. But the man is squinting at Gilligan, burly arms folded across his chest. He's perplexed, suspicious, totally out of his element, but he doesn't let it show. He looks too big for the table. He reminds Gilligan of Johnny Appleseed or Matt Dillon. He just needs a coonskin cap or a cowboy hat. He probably has the latter somewhere. He fills the space solidly, like the Skipper, pinning you down with his eyes as he tries to figure you out.

While he's already halfway under the table, eager to stay out of sight for as long as possible, Gilligan grabs for his fallen spoon, nearly tumbling off his chair. He resurfaces for a second to drop the spoon onto his plate, loudly, and then ducks back down to search the floor for his lost napkin.

The Skipper sighs again, glances at their visitors regretfully, and opens his mouth to apologize when the whole table suddenly shakes. China rattles. The woman's coffee splashes over the edge of her cup. There's a muffled sound from under the table.

Gilligan reappears, his cloth napkin victoriously clutched in one hand, his other hand pressed over the growing welt on the top of his head. His hat would have cushioned the blow, but the Skipper wouldn't let him wear it at the table. Gilligan quickly sits up straight, smiles sheepishly.

The Skipper glares daggers at him. The woman smiles a little wider. The man narrows his eyes a little more.

Gilligan squirms again.

Two days ago, on October 17, 1978, three days after the castaways were towed into Honolulu Harbor on their makeshift huts-boat, a storm blew in from the east, traveling 3,615 miles from the heartland of America.

Hurricane George descended on Hawaii. And he brought his wife with him.

They made landfall in a whirlwind of gingham and tears, eager to see it for themselves, not willing to wait to see their niece and find out what happened. Mary Ann squealed and leapt into her uncle's arms and he spun her around and called her darlin' and then peered over her shoulder at Gilligan, who hid behind the Skipper.

Aunt Martha was like a summer rain shower, bright and sunny. She smelled like hay and fresh dough and Midwestern sun and she fawned over Gilligan, looking him up and down like she was appraising him for the county fair. She peppered them with questions, stories, and updates on all of Mary Ann's friends and cousins. Who got married, who had a baby, who moved away, whose shipping heiress wife left him in the dust. But mostly who got married and who had a baby, which she emphasized with a wink and a not so subtle nudge in Mary Ann's ribs. She wanted to know everything about everyone, but had more questions than there was time to answer. Fifteen years worth of news and nagging and curiosity had built up inside her and she released it all at once in a torrential downpour of love and affection, all while never letting go of her niece's hand for fear of her floating away again.

Uncle George was like a hurricane before it struck, perpetually looming on the horizon, brooding and watching you, trying to decide if it wanted to ruin your day or not. He greeted Mary Ann with open arms and a wide smile and a twinkle in his eye. He shook the Skipper's hand firmly and clapped him on the back and thanked him for keeping his niece safe. Then he turned to Gilligan, who squeaked and called him "sir" and the Skipper rolled his eyes. George watched him evenly for a second. It felt like half an hour to Gilligan and the sailor tried to act casual, but he tripped over his own feet and the Skipper had to catch him. George narrowed his eyes and Gilligan gulped. Then George turned to the Skipper, eager to ask about all the gory details of their ordeal – navigating the storm, the Professor's inventions, dealing with the natives, but mostly about farming the tropical landscape.

The two men wandered off, leaving Gilligan behind alone until Martha took his face in her hands and squeezed his cheeks and told him he was just the cutest thing she'd seen since Harold Higgenbotham's pig popped out two little baby piglets right in the middle of his living room carpet. Gilligan thanked her, but Mary Ann was laughing, so he wasn't sure if he should have.

Gilligan squirms uncomfortably in his chair.

It's too quiet in the restaurant. Glasses clink and soft instrumental music plays somewhere.

All three men are out of place, but George has planted himself at the table like he doesn't notice, leaning back in his tiny chair, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the young sailor.

It's too fancy here, but no one wants to bring it up. The poor Skipper is trying so hard to make this easier for Gilligan. He's glaring at first mate again – say something.

"Mrs. Summers?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I ..." Gilligan tries not to glance at George, but the more he tries not to, the more he can't help it. The man is watching him with heightened interest. "I ... I forgot." Gilligan looks down at his lap where he's twisting his napkin tightly.

The Skipper sighs, loudly this time. He's not even trying to be subtle anymore. He wishes he had his cap on so he could hit Gilligan with it.

Gilligan tugs on his collar. The Skipper made him tuck in his shirt and button the top button like when they'd go to one of Mrs. Howell's fancy cotillion parties with the tiny sandwiches and the music that always made Mary Ann try to dance with him.

Gilligan looks around the restaurant as if it's the most interesting place he's ever seen. Mary Ann's been in the ladies room for what feels like three hours now. What could she possibly be doing in there? At least when she's at the table Martha is so busy telling her what everyone she's ever met has been up to for the past decade that Gilligan couldn't say anything even if he wanted to.

Gilligan glances at the Skipper. The captain is still glaring at him. A faint crimson is spreading up his neck from under the collar of his blue polo shirt. His shirt is also formally buttoned all the way up, his ancient skinny necktie nearly choking him. The red creeps up onto the Skipper's face. Gilligan is sure that he's going to explode right there in the middle of the fancy restaurant when a sudden voice behind him makes him jump and fling all his cutlery onto the floor again.

"Hi!"

Gilligan instantly leaps to his feet, partly because Mrs. Howell trained him to do so when a lady approaches and partly because he's never been so happy to see Mary Ann in his entire life.

Mary Ann settles back into her chair. "What did I miss?"

"Absolutely nothing," her uncle drawls.

Mary Ann reaches up and lays a gentle hand on Gilligan's arm. He's poised, ready to bolt at any moment, trying to decide if he wants to make a break for freedom. "Gilligan." He looks down at her and seems to regain some focus. "Sit down. Relax." He obeys and she pats his arm.

"So, what do you do for a living, boy?" George shifts and his chair creaks.

"I ... um ... well ... well, we just got back." This is the longest sentence Gilligan has said to the man yet.

"Gilligan was in the Navy, Uncle George." Gilligan is gripping the wooden arm of the chair so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. Mary Ann grins proudly at him and lays her hand over his, squeezing it comfortingly.

Martha's eyes light up. "Oh! Well, we girls always appreciate a man in uniform. Isn't that right, Mary Ann?" Mary Ann nods enthusiastically and the women laugh. Gilligan smiles a little, uncertainly.

But his face falls when Gilligan notices George staring blatantly at Mary Ann's hand on top of his on the arm of the chair. Gilligan gulps and tries to subtly slide his hand out from under hers, but Mary Ann slips her hand under his palm and laces her fingers through his, holding his hand right out there in the open for everyone to see. Gilligan glances around frantically, eyes wide. Martha is grinning at them. He knows Mary Ann is just trying to reassure him, but with her uncle staring at him like that Gilligan's positive that he's going to drop dead of a heart attack within the next ten seconds.

"Really?" George asks without looking up from their hands. "The Navy? A little pipsqueak like you?"

"Yes, sir," he squeaks and then winces.

"Oh, Uncle George! Be nice! Gilligan's a fine sailor. He's the best swimmer I've ever seen, too. One time, he..." Mary Ann keeps talking, her voice fading out as Gilligan notices that she's pulled his hand closer to her. Gilligan is now leaning to the right, the arm of his chair digging into his ribs, his hand firmly enclosed in both of hers.

Against his better judgment, Gilligan glances up at George. He's raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes at the same time. Gilligan's not sure if that's possible, but it's terrifying. Gilligan tears his gaze away and feels the first real strains of panic rising up inside him. He's breathing heavily, nearly gasping for air. Mary Ann keeps chatting happily with her aunt and innocently rests her hands in her lap. Gilligan feels the fabric of her skirt brush his knuckles and his eyes widen. His legs slip out from under him as if he was going to try to run but forgot he was sitting down. Gilligan's head snaps up and he gapes shamelessly at George, eyes wide as saucers, waiting for the man to make a move.

But George doesn't move a muscle. Only his gaze shifts, very slightly. He looks Gilligan straight in the eye and the sailor knows instantly that George saw all three hands disappear below the edge of the table.

Mary Ann sails blithely on in her conversation, completely oblivious to the homicide being premeditated on the other side of the table.

Gilligan has been pulled halfway out of his chair, his right arm stretched across half of Mary Ann's body and his hand seized tightly in hers, when he comes to a sudden realization. Mary Ann doesn't love him. She hates him. She's trying to get him killed.

Gilligan waits until Mary Ann is so absorbed in her conversation that her grip relaxes to begin trying to free himself, gradually, slowly, but blinded with purpose. The sooner he gets his hand out of her lap the more likely it is that he'll live to see tomorrow.

Gilligan works at reclaiming his hand slowly, subtly, eyes fixed blindly on the tablecloth, terrified to meet anyone's gaze. He gets their hands back up onto the arm of his chair and instantly feels twenty times better. Mary Ann, Martha, and the Skipper are talking around him. George grunts a two word response only when spoken to and Gilligan knows he's watching him. He can feel it.

Only a few of the words floating around him actually land and register with Gilligan. They're still talking about all of Mary Ann's cousins back in Kansas. There are a lot of them, so he has ample time to work with. Gilligan continues laboring to free his captive hand until one full sentence cuts through his concentration to trumpet through his consciousness loud and clear.

"Gracie doesn't remember me?" Mary Ann whispers, her breath catching in her throat, and Gilligan looks up.

There's silence from the other side of the table. Martha looks down at her plate. "Mary Ann, she was only three years old."

On the day Mary Ann left for Hawaii, little Grace Summers tugged on her cousin's skirt, pouting up at her. My Ann coming back? Mary Ann knelt down in front of her in the yard and gathered her into her arms. I promise.

Mary Ann is staring at her aunt and uncle. "She asked for you for a long time," Martha says quietly. "But she was so little. One day she just stopped."

Mary Ann turns to look at Gilligan, blinking the moisture back from her eyes.

Gilligan stops trying to free himself. He knows that heartbroken look well, and so he squeezes her hand instead.

George doesn't miss this and he frowns thoughtfully. Finally, Martha clears her throat and collects herself. "Well, come on, now. This is supposed to be a celebration. Why don't we get to know William a little better?" Gilligan doesn't look up; he's still watching Mary Ann. She's blinking vaguely at her water glass. "Dear?"

Gilligan's head snaps up and he stares at Martha dumbly. "Oh. That's me." He smiles sheepishly.

Martha grins at him, decides to start simply. "Where are you from?"

"Where am I ... ? Oh. Pennsylvania." He almost said the island.

"What else? Do you have any siblings?"

"A sister." Then he remembers. "And a brother." He feels the need to add, "This is his shirt."

Gilligan's relaxing a little. He's fine as long as he pretends George isn't there and as long as Martha asks him simple questions that he knows how to answer. Even the Skipper's starting to look cautiously relieved.

Martha makes a big show of trying to think up her next question. "What's your favorite color?"

"I ... um ... brown." Brown? Who likes brown?

"How many kids do you want?"

"Aunt Martha!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Martha!" George throws his napkin down on the table in frustration.

Martha looks around, wide eyed. "What? It's good to know!" She turns to Gilligan and adds earnestly, "We have six. They come in handy around the farm. Or the boat, I imagine."

"Aunt Martha!"

The Skipper holds his head in his hands. He can't even look at Gilligan. No one can, except Martha, who's fully expecting an answer. Even Mary Ann is staring down at the carpet. They hold their breath, bracing for the inevitable explosive reaction and disaster that would follow.

But it's eerily quiet from Gilligan's general direction. Maybe he finally passed out. He coughs, clears his throat quietly. "Um. Maybe I should get a dog first."

There's silence around the table and the others peer at him curiously. Gilligan's smiling, a little proud of himself. The Skipper exhales with relief. Martha laughs slightly at his joke, but is noticeably disappointed that he still didn't answer her question.

Mary Ann grins and leans toward him, taking Gilligan's arm with her free hand and pulling it close. "Gilligan's amazing with animals," she tells them. "You should see it. Birds, monkeys, anything. He charmed a fish out of the lagoon without a fishing pole once. He even tamed a lion." She leans closer and her chin brushes his shoulder. She gazes at him tenderly. "He'll be a wonderful father."

Gilligan turns to peer at her and flinches when he sees how close she is. Mary Ann is beaming at him lovingly, eyes wide and bright. He smiles back. For a minute everyone else disappears and they're back in one of their special places on the island – perched high in the banyan tree or swimming under the waterfall. Their noses touch and he suddenly realizes that she's going to kiss him right there in public in front of the Skipper and her aunt and uncle and a room full of strangers and God Himself.

Gilligan's eyes widen. Martha is halfway out of her chair, staring at them expectantly, like this is the greatest thing she's seen since that piglet incident. Gilligan glances at George and that's all the incentive he needs to leap from his chair. He doesn't quite make it to his feet as his legs tangle in the legs of the chair and he topples over backwards. Mary Ann lets go of his hand and calls out to him as his rear end connects with the back of the chair and it tips over, sending him heading for the floor. He grabs blindly in the air and ends up with a handful of tablecloth.

Plates and silverware and full coffee cups slide across the table as he falls. Mary Ann jumps up as glasses tip off the edge of the table and water pours onto her chair. George casually plucks up his coffee cup before it recedes from his reach.

Plates clatter as they're pulled from the table, half eaten lunches wasted. The giant piece of cake that the Skipper was really looking forward to, to numb the pain of this lunch, slides away from him and lands icing-down on Gilligan's shirt. The basket of bread overturns and miniature doughy boulders avalanche down on the first mate. The rolls bounce away across the carpet and the room fades into silence.

Everyone in the restaurant is gawking. A waiter freezes halfway through the kitchen door, a full tray of dishes balanced on his palm. Patrons raise their eyebrows, peer down their noses. Mary Ann stands over Gilligan, staring at him with worried horror, and the Skipper hides his face in his hands.

Gilligan is motionless beneath the stained and rumpled tablecloth and George gives his wife a look that causes Martha to frown and swat at him before he's even said anything. "The Navy, huh?"