It Was Only a Theory

It had been five years since he and the Skipper had agreed on their little white lie.

Strangely enough, thought the Professor, there had been no repercussions. Even when it had become evident that the S.S. Minnow would never again be seaworthy, the hope of rescue still remained strong among them all.

They had created a community: It was to him a fascinating study on what the better nature of humanity could accomplish if given the chance.

At this time of year—the anniversary of their shipwreck—his heart ached that he had lied to people who had become more dear to him than family. But he would never break the oath he had made with the Skipper.

So, as a man of science, he'd continue his researches on not only the flora and fauna of the island, but in finding alternatives methods of rescue. Unfortunately, as far as the scientific method and this island were concerned, the two seemed diametrically opposed.

His studies had allowed him a better understanding of why the island was an enigma: something that had kept even the natives on neighbouring islands from venturing too often upon its shores. Through an optical illusion caused by thermal inversion layers and ocean-swept currents, the island was from time-to-time camouflaged, like an inverse mirage. While there was no way to counteract this natural occurrence, his studies had deepened his understanding of how often and why the situation happened.

Thankfully, he hadn't needed to rely solely on his homemade lab equipment, but had managed to cobble together pieces from some of NASA and the US Air Force's misfires that had accidentally landed or washed ashore over the years. His greatest obstacle was the rapidly changing technology that was now being utilized; he was five years behind the times, and had to teach himself by trial and error exactly what use he could make from some of the devices.

One of the most obvious questions he'd been asked was why with all his scientific knowledge had they never built a boat? It was not exactly rocket science; even the natives they encountered from some of the surrounding islands arrived via crude outrigger canoes. They could build similar boats, but the island they were on was isolated, far from the shipping lanes. To build even a basic canoe would mean it would need to re-supply itself on the neighbouring islands, and there was no way to know which islands held friendly natives and which held cannibalistic, head-hunting savages. Without a transmitter, there was no telling if he'd be sending the Skipper and his first mate, Gilligan, for help or to their death. As seven stranded on dry land, they would have a better chance of survival than two running aground on the wrong island. If help were to be found, it would need to be by some other method.

From what they learned of the outside world from their radio—their only link to civilisation—he believed rescue was an inevitability. He doubted that it would be by any grand and glorious idea of his, or the unanticipated arrival of some errant stranger who was just as likely to leave them stranded as provide help. No, it would be something outside of their control. Whether by the US military using the island as a satellite tracking station to monitor Soviet satellites; anthropologists and archaeologists wanting to make the cover of National Geographic with their discovery of a naturally formed Brigadoon; or even religious evangelicals hoping to provide "salvation" to primitive cultures; it would only be a matter of time before the world encroached on their idyll. The question remained when?

Hence the Professor's constant work in attempting to rebuild the transmitter using, as he often put it, "coconut shells and bamboo rods."

The other castaways were spending a leisurely afternoon in their huts; the heat from the afternoon sun and the unusually high humidity slackened the pace of their daily chores. From the breeze blowing through his open window, the wind had picked up considerably, and judging by the growing shadows within his own hut, the azure sky's cottony clouds were darkening. While they'd grown used to these types of storms seemingly appearing from nowhere; it didn't pay to take chances. Examining his homemade barometer for changes in the weather, nothing seemed unusual.

Just a small summer storm passing across the island, he thought, returning once again to his work.

So intent on soldering two wires and a transistor to a circuit board that had never been intended by NASA to be used in such a way, he hadn't noticed the spreading greenish-grey darkness now hovering above their side of the island.

There was a faint knock at his door. the unexpectedness made him drop the transistor he'd been fiddling with into a pile of other pieces of NASA equipment he kept neatly arranged in a weaved box.

"Professor?" called the voice softly. Experience had taught the castaways not to disturb the Professor when he was working on his experiments.

He was glad for the interruption, even if it did mean re-soldering the transistor. "Come in, Mary Ann."

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she apologised.

"No, I should be the one to apologise. When I get involved in my work, it takes precedence over everything."

She returned his smile, knowing that when his concentration was fixated on something, he'd have to be dragged away to even eat. "Have you noticed the sky?" she asked. "If this were Kansas, they'd be broadcasting tornado alerts about now."

"Tornadoes?" He re-examined the barometer. The pressure seemed to be within normal range. "It's just another small squall passing across the island."

She jumped suddenly as a peal of thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. "It sounds like it's heading this way."

Hugging her, he tried to soothe her nerves; the former farm girl was one of the most level-headed of their troupe. "Everything points to a small storm; even the radio isn't reporting any out of the ordinary weather system."

The same thought passed through both their minds: the radio didn't have any reports on the typhoon that had marooned them five years earlier, either.

This time the thunder sounded closer.

"It does sound like the ocean currents may have shifted the direction of the storm." He realized he was holding her tightly, and released her. Mary Ann sighed to herself: though a man of science, he wasn't a man of the world.

Feeling he must make amends, he continued, "While I doubt it's anything to cause concern, perhaps it's best if we all begin to prepare as if it were."

Another rumble of thunder seemed to agree with his assessment, and he and Mary Ann left his hut to warn their fellow castaways to "batten down the hatches"—just in case.

With the next rumble of thunder, they didn't need to knock on their friends' doors to get their attention. The others had already gone outside to ask their resident scientific expert about the nature of this storm.

"Professor," began the Skipper, "that sounds like a real doozy heading our way."

"I agree with the Captain," added Mr. Howell. "Are we to worry about another unexpected typhoon." The millionaire's eyes scanned the greenish-grey sky.

The Professor raised his arms to placate the others. "I've already checked both the radio and my barometer. This is just one of those quick storms that often pass over the island." Even though, he, too, was a bit unnerved by the colour of the sky. He kept his voice level, continuing. "What we're seeing is a rather dense formation of cumulus congestus clouds."

"You mean clouds get congestion, too?" asked Gilligan.

"Oh for the love of Pete," growled the Skipper.

The scientist just shook his head before answering; the first mate could be exasperating at times. Rather than go into a detailed explanation, in this case the Professor thought defeat might be the better part of valour. "Gilligan, "he fumbled for the simplest explanation he could devise, "think of the cumulus cloud as your nose…and what do you do when your nose is congested?"

Gilligan answered readily, "Blow it?"

"Well, in a way, this is exactly what these clouds are doing. They've been filled with water vapour, and the only way to release that—uh—congestion, as it were, is for them to rain."

While not quite accurate, the answer seemed to calm Gilligan and the others, as well. "Now, what I suggest we do is to check that our supplies are secure, and that we have enough food and fresh water to sustain us through this storm." He added a hasty, "Don't you agree, Skipper?" in order to appease the ego of the man who felt directly responsible for the lives of the castaways.

*.*.*.*.*

With the supplies checked and secured, the Professor returned to his own hut to continue work on the circuit board for the new transmitter he'd been trying to build.

While the storm's intensity didn't seem unusual—they'd been through worse—the darkness was a bit disconcerting for this hour of the afternoon, and he needed to light a candle to be able to continue his work.

The transistor he'd soldered onto the circuit board seemed to handle the low voltage passing through it.

This time, he thought, it just might work.

Using his pedal-driven turbine, he slowly increased the current to the board. From the readings on his monitoring devices, everything appeared to be within acceptable levels. There was actually a slight hum being generated through the low-band frequency of their AM radio.

Stopping his pedalling, he moved the AM radio to the other side of his hut and farther from the circuit board to determine if the power he was generating was a constant and a signal could be transmitted, or if the amount of power output needed as well as distance would be factors in delivering a continuous signal.

Getting back in the saddle of the turbine, he began pumping slowly, allowing the current once again to build gradually to tolerable levels. This time, however, there was no hum from the radio.

The Professor quickened his pumping to increase the voltage running through the circuit board while trying to monitor the readings and listen for any sound that might be generated. So, intent had he been on doing three things simultaneously, he didn't notice that a strong gust of wind coming through his window had blown out the candle, as the storm surged overhead. About to accept this set-back—that there was just no way for one pedal-powered turbine to generate enough power to transmit a signal over the distance that would be required to reach the shipping lanes—the radio crackled with an ear-piercing sound of static. An arc of electricity danced between the circuit board and the radio, as lightning seemed to split the world around him, momentarily blinding him. The concussion threw him from the bicycle-like device, but in the few brief seconds before losing consciousness, he muttered, "Ball lightning… thought it was only a theory."