"Now, go talk to him like his little buddy," the Professor urged. Gilligan nodded determinedly, and slipped easily through the makeshift prison bars. Straightening his hat, he approached the Skipper, watching him sort through the weapons he had collected from around the camp.

"Hey, Skipper!" he called cheerily. "Don't you remember me? It's your little buddy!" The Skipper whirled around, grabbing the weapon closest to his hand - the little silver revolver. He brandished it threateningly at Gilligan.

"What do you think you're doing out here, soldier? Get back in there!" he yelled, his eyes glinting dangerously. Gilligan gulped in the face of this unfamiliar, harsh version of his Skipper, but he stood his ground all the same. He knew the gun was filled only with blanks. Maybe, he thought, if he started to run, the Skipper would give chase. That would give time for the others to escape. They could meet up later and figure out a better plan to bring Skipper to his senses. With this in mind, Gilligan moved away from the prison.

"If you want me back in there, you're gonna have to catch me!" he challenged, and he turned and ran. He heard the click of the gun being cocked and turned around, running backwards for a bit, to see if the Skipper really would fire. He did. But that wasn't what worried the skinny first mate. He knew the gun was filled with blanks. What did worry him was the fact that, as he was running, the back of his legs suddenly connected with something. He felt the all-too-familiar sensation of falling backwards, a confused impression of coldness and wet, and then a sharp pain as his head collided with something hard…

He was getting away, the Skipper thought furiously, and he raised the revolver in his hand, steadily following the fleeing Japanese soldier. He cocked the gun and watched as the Jap began to run backwards, watching the gun in the Skipper's hand warily. If that soldier thought that looking the Skipper in the face would stop him from firing, he was sorely mistaken. He fired.

At that same moment, the soldier, still running backwards, tripped backwards - right into the fresh water trough. Time seemed to slow as the man fell backwards, into the water and out of sight. Because suddenly, the Japanese soldier wasn't a Japanese soldier. He was a familiar skinny, goofy boy in a bright red shirt and a white sailor's hat. He was a beloved friend and first mate, falling backwards into water while the sound of a gunshot echoed through the air. It was a sight the Skipper had seen before…

Except this time, it was worse than in his memory. It was worse, even, than in his nightmares. For this time, it was not Jonathan Kinkaid holding his cursed hunting rifle. It was himself, Jonas Grumby, holding the smoking gun. His heartbeat pounded wildly in his ears, and the offending revolver dropped harmlessly to the ground, slipping from the Skipper's shaking fingers. And then time resumed. Unforgivingly, time continued on.

"Gilligan!" the Skipper cried, and he didn't care that his voice broke. "Gilligan, little buddy!" He ran over to the fresh water trough, and fell to his knees beside it. It was truly a nightmare. It was just as his terrified mind had imagined it the first time, when Kinkaid had pulled the trigger. He could see Gilligan's too-still form beneath the water, but Gilligan's stillness wasn't what scared the Skipper most.

Red was clouding the water.

With lightning speed and the gentlest care, the Skipper reached into the water and pulled out his unconscious first mate, laying him flat on the warm island sand. Just then, the Professor and all the other castaways crowded around, having broken free of their bamboo prison.

"Get back," the Professor commanded urgently, waving them all back a few feet. "Give him some room." The Skipper backed up slightly, not as far as the others, and wrung his hands in immense worry. But the Professor knew just what he was doing, as always, and relief coursed like hot fire through the Skipper's veins as his first mate suddenly lurched up and fell to one side, coughing out water. The Professor grabbed his shoulder, holding him steady. After all the water was out from his lungs, Gilligan collapsed, exhausted, into the Professor, breathing heavily. The Professor positioned himself so Gilligan could stay seated upright. The castaways all were silent, waiting on Gilligan. His dazed eyes wandered slowly about the group, settling finally on the Skipper.

"Skipper?" His voice was terribly hoarse, and the others winced to hear it.

"Right here, little buddy," the Skipper responded immediately, moving closer. Unexpectedly, a small smile stretched across Gilligan's face.

"Hey, you remember!" he cheered weakly. The others chuckled quietly, relieved to hear him sounding like himself. A confused expression suddenly crossed Gilligan's face, and he reached a hand up to his head. He winced, pulling his hand back, and stared as he saw the blood on it.

"You hit your head on the trough when you fell in," the Professor explained gently, looking from Gilligan to the Skipper. The Professor was there too, when they had thought Kinkaid shot Gilligan. The memory had replayed, unbidden, in his head too when the Skipper had fired at Gilligan just as he fell into the water trough. Seeing the Skipper pull an unconscious and bleeding Gilligan from the water had shaken the Professor more than cared to admit. He couldn't imagine what it felt like for the Skipper, holding the gun. It was certainly the worst possible way for the Skipper's memories to come back. But all the same, his memories were back, taking care of that particular problem. However, like always on the island, when one problem is resolved, another problem presents itself, and they now had a drenched, bleeding, and possibly-concussed Gilligan on their hands.

"Alright, we need to get Gilligan back to camp," the Professor announced, taking action. He moved to try to pull Gilligan to his feet, but the Skipper got there first, easily scooping up his first mate. The Professor, having a sudden thought, looked into the trough. There it was - Gilligan's hat. He fished it out, frowning at the new, grim stain it had acquired. He wrung it out, watching the water fall in droplets to the island sand. "Mr. Howell," he called, "could you gather up those weapons, please?" Mr. Howell nodded and carefully rounded up the other weapons that remained beside the prison, and together the castaways headed wearily for home.