Author's Note: I love and appreciate ALL the characters on Gilligan's Island, having grown up with them, so to speak, by watching the show since I was a little girl. They are all unique and wonderful in my eyes. My heart does feels a little extra tug, however, when I think of the Professor and Mary Ann, therefore, some compositions I had been working on over time, such as this one, are tales pairing the two together.

Thank you in advance for your anticipated kindness and indulgence as I add one of my little trinkets, insignificant as it may be, to this online treasure trove. I am not a writer by any means, and my offerings in this arena will certain pale in comparison to the works of the truly talented contributors on this board. I am embarking upon this endeavor solely out of love for a show that gave me joy as a child, and as a happy trip of the imagination to a beloved tropic isle - just for a small diversion from the far more serious matters of life…..

CHAPTER 1

Write her a poem. Write her a poem? That was indeed the Skipper's advice to the Professor when he mustered up the courage to go and consult his friend about how to share the feelings he had developed for a certain special someone on the island…

After the Professor had managed to stammer out his predicament and confess his conundrum, the Skipper slapped him on the back with a hearty smile and said, "You're just figuring this out now? I've been noticing how well you two get along for quite some time. You're clearly smitten with her, and she seems just as fond of you. It's high time you did something about it!"

"But what do I say? I'm no good with words of romance. How would I even bring up such a subject?" asked the Professor, with eyes that virtually pleaded for assistance. The Skipper felt bad for the poor man. So intelligent and gifted in so many areas, yet here – dealing with emotions and interactions of a more personal nature – he was at a total loss. He could tell from the Professor's face that he must have been losing quite a bit of sleep over this. He looked absolutely exhausted.

"What's the problem? Don't you feel comfortable around her? I mean… you do spend a lot of time together. These past few months I've been noticing that you've been asking for her help more often than before... to hunt down plant specimens and what not. You both spend time almost every day working on the garden too. Surely you two must talk all the time," stated the sailor with a slightly quizzical look on his face.

"But that's just it, Skipper," the Professor replied sadly. "I have no problem talking about scientific findings, events of the day, or even childhood stories. Actually, the fact that I am so comfortable around her has led me, over time, to express my deep feelings on many, many subjects… and she has shared hers with me as well."

"That's why I'm asking – what's the problem?" countered the Skipper with greater force.

"This is different. I've never talked about… matters of the heart… with any woman. I'm a Professor with six degrees, and have given lectures to thousands on multiple subjects, yet now I find myself petrified beyond belief. I don't know how I can face her and tell her what I feel about… well, her."

"Well, in that case, why don't you write her a poem?" suggested the Skipper. "The ladies love that kind of thing. Gets 'em right here," he said as he tapped his chest right over his heart with his large fist.

The advice seemed solid enough, so he had headed out of the Skipper's hut, still filled with trepidation, but determined to follow his friend's direction. However, as he walked, it occurred to him that he was no better off with this newly formulated plan of action. How on earth was he to compose a poem? He had no idea how to even go about such a thing. As much as he hated to discuss his personal feelings with the others, he was reaching the point of desperation, and decided it would be wise to consult just one other castaway for input; someone well-versed in social matters.

"A poem? How simply delightful!" cried Mrs. Howell, clasping her hands together gleefully. "Women adoooore poetry. I remember when my darling Thurston first began calling on me. He would write the most divinely inspired little novelettes. However," she paused, touching her gloved hand to her face, "I do recall finding out later that he had his secretary compose them for him, and then he just re-wrote them in his own hand. How utterly unromantic that was. I was furious when I found out! I can't believe I had forgotten about that. Oh, that man!" she grumbled with ferocity, already distracted from the matter at hand, and quickly working herself up into a determined, yet reserved, bout of righteous indignation. "I will have to speak to him about his most impertinent behavior immediately! Why, who knows how many other personal notes to me that he has had his secretary compose while we have been marooned here on this dreary little island!"

"But, Mrs. Howell, his secretary is not here on this island with us," the Professor reminded her kindly.

"Oh dear. I suppose you're right," she said, then quickly regained her smile. "Well then dear boy, hurry along then and get to work. Just make sure to write the poem yourself and do not have your staff handle such a personal matter. It would be quite improper."

"I'll be sure to remember that. Thank you very much for your assistance, Mrs. Howell," was the Professor's respectful, yet slightly disappointed reply. No assistance there.

He went back to his hut to think. He leafed through some of the books comprising their limited island library: The World of Facts, A Million Ways to Make a Million, The History of Tree Surgery and finally Hamlet, but no words were found to aid him in his endeavor. As he closed the last volume, he placed his elbows on table, rested his chin on his hands, and let out a defeated sigh.

He decided to take a walk that evening to a rather high rock formation overlooking the beach, hoping for some inspiration. He knew very well how he felt inside. He was just unsure of how to put the words to paper in a way that would touch the human heart. There had to be a way to come up with a poem to express his feelings for the one whom he was now sure was the absolute love of his life.

The night was clear, and the stars were shining brightly. It was so clear in fact, that he could quite easily pick out Venus glowing brighter and larger than the others stars. He began to think of the truly incredible view of the night sky that they had here on the island, as opposed to what they could see back on the mainland, where the city lights and pollution obscured so much of nature's beauty. As he thought how truly wondrous it was that he could distinguish a planet so far away with the naked eye, he caught himself humming a little tune that was taught to him as a memory aid back when he was a young boy, just beginning his journey into the world of science. He began to sing out the words softly…

"My very educated mother just served us nine perfect pies…"

He laughed – both at the silly wording, and at the fact that he still remembered it, so many years later. Of course, that was indeed the point of a mnemonic device or any acronym, he thought to himself… to stick something in your mind so you could remember it over and over. In this case, the beginning letter of each word of the phrase set to a catchy little tune signified a different planet, and their position, in extending order, out from the sun: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Pluto. Why there was the extra "P" at the end was beyond him. Perhaps just for the sake of the flow of the song he supposed.

It occurred to him that such a similar methodology was indeed also used in poetry of sorts.

With arms crossed, and one hand to his chin, one eyebrow suddenly raised. That's it! he thought to himself. He stood there for a moment as he continued to contemplate his newly formed idea.

He could use this as a jumping off point for his poem. What if he took her name as the foundation, the acronym, and just wrote a line for each letter? He could even attempt to make the lines rhyme. If all else fails… at least she will remember it, he thought, smiling to himself.

He headed back quickly to his hut with a little bit of newly found confidence and direction, took out what he was using for paper and pencil, and wrote the letters down the side of the page, slowly and deliberately…. M…A…R…Y…A…N…N.