It happened in the most unexpected of ways.

The castaways, in an attempt to keep their minds off of the dreaded fifth plague, had all gathered near the lagoon. The Skipper, the Professor, and Gilligan were all working on a tall bamboo structure - a look-out post. They were adding the finishing touches, testing the sturdiness of the structure. They seemed pleased. The other castaways stood around it, watching, waiting. Trying to forget.

"Well, I think it's all done now," the Skipper said. His voice rang with false cheer.

"Gee, that's good," Gilligan said, and the others cringed. Even Gilligan's cheer had sounded artificial.

"Why don't we try it out?" Mary Ann put in then, attempting to divert the attention off of the gloomy undercurrent in everyone's voices. Ginger smiled slightly, swallowing her comment about Mary Poppins.

"I'll try it," she announced, sashaying over to the look-out structure. She climbed onto the platform and then smoothly scaled the ladder to the top. "Can you see me?" she called to the castaways down below.

"I see you, Ginger!" Mary Ann called back, and the others called up similar responses.

"Try going further away, and see if you can still spot me!" Ginger told them. Glad for something to do, the six other castaways moved back, further and further from the lagoon, always watching Ginger. The height of the structure meant that it stuck up over the tops of the trees, and Ginger was easily spotted no matter how far they went. She stood there, glowing, her white dress stenciled with "S.S. MINNOW" in stark contrast with the graying sky behind her. Even from their distance, the castaways thought they could see her sparkling smile. She grinned at them. She winked.

That was the moment the wave came.

It was a wave like no other. In fact, it wasn't a wave so much as a surge of water. The lagoon seemed suddenly to swell in a rush of angry swirling tide, and suddenly the shore disappeared beneath it. And before the castaways' very eyes, it lifted the bamboo look-out structure with the greatest of ease. The smile on Ginger's face was gone, replaced with a look of utter horror as the tide rose up and swept away the structure, with her still on it. The six other castaways echoed her fear, running forward, racing toward the tide. But when they got there, the tide had receded just as quickly as it had come, and the structure was floating far out of the lagoon, Ginger still hanging on for dear life, borne away on the current of a loathsome tide.

The castaways stood upon the sodden lagoon shore, frozen. There was nothing they could do but watch. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. They simply stared, imprisoned and paralyzed by their own horror, watching as the seventh castaway left them. The movie star stared back, equally immobile, her photogenic features arranged in a quiet surprise, and a mournful resignation. The six castaways on the beach couldn't hear her anymore, but they saw her smooth lips frame the word anyway.

"Farewell."

And she drifted away, off of the island, out of sight.

The movement resumed then. It was Mrs. Howell first. She turned, slowly, and buried her face into Mr. Howell's shirt. Mr. Howell's arm moved automatically to embrace his wife, and his eyes were sorrow-filled and grim as his wife's muffled sobs grew louder.

Mary Ann's grief was silent. The tears streamed down her face in noiseless rivers, ruining her makeup and wetting her shirt. She didn't move at all.

The Skipper removed his hat, held it to his chest. Whatever happened, he was still the Captain, and the others were still his responsibility. He straightened. He would remain strong, lest everything should fall to pieces. Gravely, he looked around, gauging the others' reactions.

The Professor, like Mary Ann, remained still as stone. He was not crying, simply staring - staring at the place Ginger had once been. The Skipper wondered if he had processed what had just happened yet. With a sigh, the Skipper looked to his little buddy.

Gilligan was staring, too, but he didn't look shocked. He wasn't crying. He wasn't grieving. His hands were balled in fists, and his cerulean eyes were raging worse than any storm in the Skipper's memory. And then, quick as lightning, he sprang forward, bounding for the lagoon, making a beeline for the water. The Skipper barely had time to react before Gilligan was wading in, extremely fast, and eerily furious. Bracing himself, the Skipper ran quickly to his irate first mate. He grabbed the younger man with a steel embrace, holding him back, gently but firmly dragging him away from the water.

"There's nothing you can do, Gilligan," he intoned softly, but Gilligan was having none of it.

"I'm getting her back!" he shouted, and the sound echoed through the island like a gunshot. The first mate struggled vigorously, nearly escaping the Skipper's grip more than once. "I'm getting her back! Let me go; I'm getting her back! She's coming back! She's coming!"

"She's not coming back." It was a whisper, and yet somehow it was louder than the screaming had been. Gilligan's struggles ceased instantaneously, and all eyes turned to look at the broken Mary Ann.

"She's not coming back," the farm girl repeated, her voice breaking at the end. And then she started to cry in earnest. Gilligan slipped deftly out of the Skipper's arms, and the Skipper watched him go - not to the lagoon, but to Mary Ann.

Silently, gently, Gilligan pulled Mary Ann into a hug, realizing as he did so that this was the second time Mary Ann was sobbing into his bright red shirt. He wondered briefly how often that would happen before the ten plagues were finished, but the thought drifted away, as Ginger had. He held Mary Ann, heard her cries mingling with those of Mrs. Howell, but still he did not cry. There was room only for determination in the sailor's youthful eyes.

"I'll get her back, Mary Ann," he said calmly, matter-of-factly. "She'll come back. Just you wait, Mary Ann. She'll be back."

Mrs. Howell continued to sob endlessly into her husband's shirt. The Professor stared, for once uncomprehending. The Skipper held his Captain's hat, his watchful eyes roaming the harsh horizon. And Mary Ann cried, softly, desperately, as Gilligan's chant continued, a broken record, stuck on repeat.

"I'll get her back, Mary Ann. She'll come back. Just you wait. She'll be back…"

…..

Silently, Gilligan walked out of the hut, directing himself towards the still-lit campfire and the lone figure before it. The stars were out, a pale, distant sort of light, and the moon was nowhere to be found. The tide was gentle tonight, quiet. The loudest sound was the cackling of the flames. Approaching the fire, Gilligan sat cross-legged upon the sand. Tentatively, he glanced over at the other castaway - the Professor. The teacher looked, for once, unsure. He stared into the dancing flames, deep in thought, and the firelight reflected back in his haunted eyes. Gilligan opened his mouth to say something, shut it again. He did this several times before he finally spoke up.

"Hi, Professor," he said softly, hesitantly. The Professor did not respond, and yet Gilligan got the sense that he had heard him. The young sailor sighed, shifted his position. He decided to wait for the Professor to talk - if he would talk at all, that is - and instead began to draw quietly in the sand with his finger.

"I don't know what to believe sometimes." Gilligan started at the sudden conversation, then turned to look back at the Professor, who was staring at the stars now. "I'm usually so secure in my knowledge - in my facts, my experiments, my figures. But…" the Professor faltered, swallowed. "There are times when I'm faced with things that don't follow the rules of logic. Things that don't agree with my facts. It's… unsettling, to say the least. And I start to wonder if I'm right to believe only what is logical - to believe only what I see, only what I think is possible. What if these things that defy logic - these things that can't be seen - what if they are true? What if they're real? What if they are more true than these facts and figures that I perceive as truth?" The Professor glanced at Gilligan, stared into the fire once more.

"Do you believe the plagues now, Professor?" Gilligan asked gently.

"I honestly don't know, Gilligan," the Professor replied, shaking his head slightly. "My reason says that it's all coincidence. But then… a part of me begins to wonder if there really is such a thing - if it's possible that coincidence does not exist at all. Just maybe, some things are meant to happen. Maybe there really is fate. Maybe there really is luck. Maybe things are planned." The Professor shook his head again, roughly, as if clearing it. "I just don't know what to believe sometimes," he repeated, almost inaudibly. Sighing, he leaned back in the bamboo chair, and peered intently at Gilligan. "What do you believe, Gilligan?" he asked seriously. The sailor smiled slightly and laid back, spread-eagled in the sand, his eyes full of starlight.

"I believe in good, Professor," he said. "That good triumphs evil. Not just sometimes. All the time. I think that things probably do happen for a reason - for good reasons - even if those reasons aren't always clear at first. I believe in friendship. I believe in others. I believe in these plagues," he added. "But over all else, I believe in hope." The sailor fell silent then, and the Professor made no comment. Gilligan glanced over to see that the Professor's expression was part surprised, and part thoughtful. Into the silence, Gilligan added one more thing: "And I believe that Ginger'll come back."

"Gilligan-" the Professor began, but the first mate cut him off.

"I know what you're gonna say, Professor," he told him. "But I'm not in denial. This isn't wishful thinking. This is belief, and this is hope. It's a founded hope."

"How is it founded, Gilligan?" the Professor asked wearily, but Gilligan could hear an undercurrent of hope in the Professor's voice. The Professor really did want Gilligan's hope to be based on some sort of evidence; he was clutching desperately for any logical reason that Ginger could still be alive.

"The plagues," Gilligan answered simply. "They're specific. Like the second plague - I was literally compelled toward danger. And the fourth plague? It said it would divide us. But it didn't divide us mentally; it didn't pit us against each other or anything. It literally, physically divided us with that rift. The fifth plague only says that we'd be forced to wish someone farewell. And we did! Well, Ginger did, anyway. We said farewell, and that was all the plague entailed. So she'll come back," he nodded, assuredly.

The Professor pondered over the sailor's words, looking half hopeful, half doubtful. He looked into Gilligan's eyes, and saw it there - the hope, the belief, the certainty. Ginger was alright. Gilligan knew it. And the Professor couldn't fight the rush of hope that swelled, unbidden, inside him. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles, and he looked back up at the twinkling stars overhead. The silvery lights did not seem distant anymore. Instead, they were close, comforting, promising. The Professor stood up then. He nodded a good night to Gilligan, and then slowly walked back to his hut. He relaxed into his makeshift cot, feeling much more positive than he had been feeling only ten minutes before.

Gilligan. He could've been a psychiatrist.

…..

Mary Ann felt terrible. She was seated on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at Ginger's empty one. It was early in the morning - too early for anyone else to be up. It was the time she and Ginger always got up to get the breakfast started. But now she was on her own. And she couldn't face that. So she stayed seated on her bed, staring.

Her hut door swung open gently, and none other than Gilligan entered, stumbling forward with his hands over his eyes.

"Mary Ann?" he whispered quietly. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, Gilligan."

"Are you decent?" he whispered. She almost laughed. Almost.

"Yes, Gilligan." He removed his hands from his eyes, but his eyes were still shut. Slowly, he opened one cerulean eye. He saw her sitting there, dressed already, and the other eye followed suit. He stepped closer.

"Well, I just thought that… maybe I could help you with breakfast?" he asked tentatively, his eyes questioning. Blinking back her tears, Mary Ann nodded and stood up, and together the two castaways exited the hut, grabbed buckets, and then headed into the jungle for berries. They picked silently for a while, but Mary Ann could tell Gilligan was plucking up the courage to start a conversation. She could tell he was thinking very carefully about his words; he didn't want to upset her. Finally, as their buckets were nearly half full, he spoke up.

"Are you okay, Mary Ann?" he asked quietly, glancing at her for the quickest of moments. Mary Ann frowned.

"No, not really," she admitted. "I don't actually see how anyone could be okay, after Ginger…" she trailed off, sniffed. She continued picking berries, not meeting Gilligan's eyes. But then he tapped her lightly on the shoulder, getting her attention. She turned to look, and found herself startled by the intensity of his gaze.

"I told you she was coming back," Gilligan said, and he sounded more serious than he ever had. "I'm not kidding. She will come back," he said confidently. The more logical side of Mary Ann protested that this was denial - that this was impossible. But, as Ginger had often remarked, the farm girl was more Mary Poppins than Mary Ann; she had an optimistic outlook that seemed permanently a part of her. And it was clutching at anything. And right now, that thing was Gilligan and his confidence.

"You think so?" she asked him.

"I know it," he said. "And not just like this much," he added, the pointer finger and thumb of his left hand coming together to indicate something small. "I know it like this much!" he proclaimed, excitedly throwing his arms wide. The bucket of berries in his hand smashed into a nearby tree as a result of this somewhat overzealous gesture, and Gilligan's right half was suddenly stained with an awful lot of blue.

This time, Mary Ann laughed.

…..

The Howells were getting ready for breakfast when they heard a quick knock at their hut door.

"Come in!" Mr. Howell called, turning back to the mirror. He heard uncoordinated footsteps enter their hut, and knew who it was before the voice spoke.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Howell," Gilligan greeted politely. "D'you mind if-" But he stopped suddenly, and didn't finish. Curious, Mr. Howell turned to see the young sailor staring in surprise at him and his wife.

"What are you wearing?" Gilligan asked finally, still looking rather shocked. Mr. and Mrs. Howell were both covered in black, the appropriate mourning color. They looked as if they were going to a funeral, rather than breakfast, and the sight sent slight shivers up Gilligan's spine.

"Gilligan, dear," Mrs. Howell explained gently. "Black is the color one is supposed to wear when one is mourning."

"But…" Gilligan seemed to have lost his train of thought, looking back and forth between the two grim Howells. He reached up and pulled off his white sailor's hat, shaking his head so that the movement ruffled his hair. He put the hat back on, clearly trying to clear his head. "Uh… but why are you wearing that?"

"Mrs. Howell just told you, my boy!" Mr. Howell put in. "Black is the color one is supposed to wear when one is mourning."

"But one is not mourning! I mean, we're not mourning!" Gilligan replied, looking confused.

"My goodness!" Mrs. Howell exclaimed. "We've all known Ginger for a long time now, and I don't think the poor girl did anything to make herself unworthy of our grief!"

"No, no, Mrs. Howell!" Gilligan amended quickly. "That's not what I meant. I meant, we're not mourning, because she's not dead." Mr. Howell, who had been fixing his black bow tie, snapped his head up so fast he thought he had given himself whiplash.

"What?!" the two Howells cried together.

"Where is she?" asked Mrs. Howell anxiously.

"What happened?" Mr. Howell practically shouted.

"No, that's not what I mean, either," Gilligan mumbled, put out. "She isn't here. Yet. But she will come back," he said, for what was probably the thousandth time. Mr. Howell sighed and went back to fixing his bow tie, and Mrs. Howell's face softened as she regarded the slender first mate.

"Gilligan," she began gently, but Gilligan was already shaking his head vehemently back and forth, his hat threatening to fall off.

"No, Mrs. Howell," he sighed, feeling like he had been a broken record ever since the incident at the lagoon. "It's not denial," he insisted, and then he proceeded to explain what he had told the Professor the night before. Mrs. Howell looked vaguely surprised and hopeful, and she removed her black veil from her head uncertainly. Mr. Howell stopped fixing his bow tie, looking thoughtful. Clearly they were both debating Gilligan's words, weighing their validity. The two millionaires exchanged glances, wondering, hoping. Gilligan looked back and forth between the two, and decided on one last say.

"Please, Mr. and Mrs. Howell," he said softly. "Don't dress so gloomily. She's not dead, honest. You'll see," he told them surely, and he strode swiftly out of the hut.

…..

The Skipper came to the breakfast table last. He plunked down into his seat beside Gilligan, and then looked around at the other castaways in barely-concealed amazement. He was expecting everyone to be glum and subdued, with frowns and sighs and maybe even tears. But instead, he found that the atmosphere was almost as it was normally. Not quite as cheerful, perhaps, but still a total shift from what the Skipper had expected. The Howells were wearing an odd mixture of black and color, as if they were attempting to attend a funeral and a party at the same time. The Professor was looking much less somber than he had the day before; he even seemed to be in a very positive mood. Mary Ann was smiling. The Skipper shook his head in bewilderment. He wanted to ask what had happened to get everyone in such a good mood, but thought better of it. Instead, he looked questioningly at his first mate, gesturing to the remarkably upbeat castaways. In response, Gilligan smiled hugely, a smug, self-satisfied grin, and then turned back to his food.

"Oh, yeah, Mary Ann!" Gilligan said, remembering something suddenly. "I don't know what made me think of it just now, but remember when you sent those letters in bottles to that guy in Kansas?" Mary Ann blushed, embarrassed, but nodded. "Well, guess what! One of the bottles washed back to the island! I found it the other day on the…" But Gilligan suddenly trailed off, his eyes growing wide. Alarmed, Mary Ann whirled around, but nothing was there. She looked back to Gilligan, who still wore the same expression. The others had noticed now.

"Gilligan, little buddy, what is it?" the Skipper asked. And then Gilligan stood up so fast everyone jumped.

"That's it!" he shouted exuberantly, jumping in triumph. "That's it! That's it!"

"What's it?!" Mary Ann asked, nonplussed at his sudden excitement.

"The other side!"Gilligan shouted, whooping for joy, and quick as a flash, he ran off into the jungle without a backward glance, leaving the castaways in stunned, bewildered silence.