Still baffled, Gilligan soared up and down the great waves, gasping and sputtering as their crests swept in awful majesty over his head. He could no longer see the sharks anywhere: no fins, no speeding shapes, nothing. Again that inner voice, now swelling with relief, urged, Get away! Now! Now, while they've gone! Swim! He began to claw the water and kick, but stopped himself again, shaking his head wildly as though to banish the impulse once and for all. "No!" he shouted, the sound lost amid the waves. "I promised! I'm not going to panic and swim 'til I drop! Now I know I'm meant to live! I must be!" He looked up at the grey, boiling heavens and shouted as loud as he could. "Where's the island? Which way do I go? Show me! Give me a sign!"

He kept his eyes fixed on the churning sky and suddenly gasped, desperately shaking the water from his eyes as he strained to see. He couldn't be imagining it. He couldn't. There, unmistakable in all that expanse of emptiness, was a bird.

And such a bird! Like a seagull, but far larger than any flying bird he had ever seen, its great wings stretched so far that it seemed the creature might cross the ocean without ever needing to flap them. The white feathers on its underside gleamed like snow and the black feathers bordering its mighty wings shone like ebony. Effortlessly it rode the wind currents above the waves, like a being from another world.

And Gilligan, staring transfixed, remembered the poem the Skipper loved and so often read aloud. He heard his old friend's voice over the roar of the waves:

At length did cross an Albatross

Through the fog it came

As if it had been a Christian soul

We hailed it in God's name.

"In God's name," Gilligan whispered. "Oh, thank you, Skipper!" Keeping his eyes fixed on the vision, he began to follow it, straightening and plunging his way through the heaving swells.

"Hey – hey, everybody! He's turned around! Gilligan's swimming towards us! He's heading for the island!"

The castaways hurrahed in hope at the Skipper's shout. "Oh, bully for him!" cried Mr. Howell. "What made him turn? Has the dear boy seen us?"

"I don't know! I don't see how he could, with all those big swells. He can't even get to the top of them! But he's swimming!" The Skipper clenched his hands, eye glued to the telescope. "That's it, little buddy. Long, smooth, strokes. Don't waste energy! Come on! You can do it, if you're half the man I think you are!"

"Maybe it's the dolphins!" said Ginger. "Are they still with him? Maybe they've shown him the way back!"

The Skipper shook his head. "I don't think so, Ginger. They're still there, circling him, but they're pretty far out."

"And they don't need to come to land, so they wouldn't know that he would," the Professor added. "They'd have no reason to lead him here."

Mary Ann breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Well, whatever the reason he's turned, let's just be grateful! Now he's got a fighting chance!" She turned to her red-haired room-mate. "Ginger, we'd better get back to camp and get some blankets and hot soup ready for him. He's going to be cold and exhausted when he gets to shore! Skipper, where do you think he's going to come in?"

The Skipper visualized the shoreline. "If he keeps going in the same direction, he should come in by the rocks just under the cliff here…" He suddenly stopped and looked back at the castaways and gulped, face white. "Oh, no! The rocks! The surf! Professor, this stretch is the most treacherous coast on the island! That surf is huge! He'll be smashed to pieces on those rocks!"

The Professor looked quickly out to sea again, then at the horrified castaways. "Quick, everybody. We know this island! Where can he land that's safe? Think!"

For a few tense seconds the castaways silently wracked their brains, flipping through a travelogue of bays, inlets and beaches. Suddenly Ginger spoke up. "Professor, that pretty little cove! The one where we sometimes have our picnics! That's near here, isn't it! It's got a nice, soft, sandy beach. And it's sheltered! The water's never as wild as it is out at sea."

The Skipper's eyes widened in recognition. "You're right, Ginger! It is sheltered! It's awfully tiny, though. It would take a miracle for Gilligan to hit it!"

"Then let's make one!" The Professor took command. "Mr. and Mrs. Howell, you take the telescope and follow the Skipper to the cove. Girls, we're heading back to camp as quickly as we can. Here's what we're going to need…"

Arrowing through the water, Gilligan shot up the side of a great wave. The sight of the albatross had filled him with new hope and he kept his eyes always upon it, following its path in the grey vault of the heavens. Like a seal, Gilligan was clumsy on land but graceful and sure in the water: his slim young frame became one with the heaving sea as he stroked and kicked in powerful, perfect rhythm. At last, with a rush of exultation he soared above a crest and saw a tall, dark, still mass looming under the clouds. A moment later he was sliding down into the trough, but that momentary vision was enough. He had seen the island at last.

"It's there! It was there all the time! I would have missed it!" he gasped, almost hysterical with relief. He stroked on, fighting the waves, growing nearer little by little. When he reached the point where the vision did not vanish, but remained high and firm, he stopped for a moment, treading water, struck by the awesome beauty of the mountains and their misty, mysterious summits. He had never seen the island from a distance, and never known it could be so beautiful.

A low, weird cry echoed overhead. Gilligan looked up to see the almost forgotten albatross, now wheeling in the sky. It arced and circled above him, crying again, then veered off at a sharp angle, heading not towards the shore ahead, but a point some ways to the west. As he rode over the top of another swell, he scratched his head. If the bird was a sign, he was there for a reason. Taking a deep breath, Gilligan turned and swam determinedly in the direction the albatross had gone.

Gentle aquamarine waves broke onto the golden sand of Ginger's pretty little cove. The telescope had been set up on a grassy hillock with Ginger manning it, while Mr. Howell stood by holding up the heavy brass bell from the Minnow. Beside him stood his wife, a brass hammer in her hand. On the beach stood the Professor and Skipper with the white life preserver from the Minnow, attached to a long coil of rope. Behind them, Mary Ann had a pot hanging over a campfire and a supply of blankets and bandages just within reach. They looked anxiously past the ribbed green mountains to the far, rolling horizon of the sea.

"Do you see him, Ginger dear?" Mrs. Howell asked eagerly.

"I think so – yes, yes, Mrs. Howell! Professor? He's stopped swimming again!"

"Is he treading water, Ginger?"

"Yes – yes, he is!"

"Ah, that's wise of him," said the Professor. "He's still conserving his energy. Are the dolphins still there?"

The redhead swung the telescope right and left. "I don't see them! I think they've gone!"

The Professor nodded. "Then that must mean the sharks have gone too. He's nearly home. Are you ready, Mr. and Mrs. Howell?"

"Yes, indeed, Professor. As soon as he starts to swim again, we'll start ringing. By Jove, it'll sound like Christmas day in Boston by the time we're through!"

"Good! Mary Ann?"

Mary Ann looked up from where she was stirring the pot. "This is the easy part. You and the Skipper bring him in, and I'll warm him up! Just get him back here for us!"

"That's the spirit. Skipper?"

Jonas Grumby stood firm, holding the white life preserver. "The sea's not taking my first mate from me. Not while I've still got a breath in my body!"

The Professor smiled. "That's it, everyone. Get ready!"