Gilligan remembered how his kindergarten teacher had scolded him for not colouring inside the lines. But it must be okay, he thought, because God doesn't do it either. The deep gold of the low-lying sun was smeared across the whole horizon, dying the clouds to dark yellow and the mountains to glowing amber. The gold even spilled down the wet beach and glinted in the creaming breakers where Gilligan and the Skipper stood knee-deep, casting their fishing rods into the swirling water. Gilligan tilted the brim of his sailor cap down against the sun's glare and gently lifted his rod. "Boy, Skipper. I never thought a beach could look so friendly again."

"You can say that again, little buddy. The sea's a fickle mistress, all right."

"Not only that - you can't trust her either." Gilligan spun his reel handle backwards, drawing in his line.

The Skipper laughed. "You better get some practice in. You're usually a pretty good fisherman, but you haven't caught a thing all day!"

"Of course I haven't, Skipper." Gilligan pulled the end of his line from the sea and let it dangle. "I didn't put a fly on the hook."

"You didn't?" The Skipper was flummoxed. "Why not?"

"Come on, Skipper. What did we do all day yesterday, and the day before? What are we gonna be eating for the next month?"

Jonas Grumby closed his eyes and nodded in understanding. "Salt fish. Of course!"

"Exactly. How many crates of fish did you and I salt away and put in that cave?"

"Oh, please, I don't even want to think about it. Mind you, it was pretty easy work just walking around and picking fish up off the ground. We've got enough salt flatfish, bass and mackerel to last t'ill doomsday."

"Enough firewood and palm fronds too. Though it was a shame about the trees," Gilligan murmured sadly, looking back to the gold-fired beach where the snapped palms lay strewn about, their tufts hanging like limp hair.

"Mmmm." The Skipper surveyed the damage as well as he absently reeled in his own line. "Don't get too down about it, little buddy. At least our side of the island wasn't hit and our springs weren't contaminated. And everybody's okay." He glanced over at his slight first mate and looked at him searchingly. "Thanks to you, that is."

Gilligan smiled shyly as he cast his line again, steadying himself as a small wave nearly knocked him over. "Thanks to Rusty and the birds, you mean, Skipper. And Mrs. Howell's poem!"

The Skipper laughed and shook his head. "Mrs. Howell's poem. I can't believe she insisted on reciting it, sitting up there on the hill with all of us drenched!"

"She said it took her a long time to learn it, so I guess she wanted to make sure she didn't have to learn it again! Boy, she sure got the dramatic effect out of it, didn't she, Skipper?"

"I'll say. Didn't take much imagination to picture it." The Skipper chuckled fondly. "And then she insisted on trying to make us tea, but there wasn't a dry piece of kindling for miles! Poor Mrs. Howell."

"Mmmm."

They fished for several minutes in companionable silence as the creamy surf boomed and the seagulls cried overhead.

After a few moments, the Skipper spoke again. "Say, what's with you and coconut cream pies lately? You tired of them or something?"

"'Course not, Skipper. What do you mean?"

"Just that Mary Ann's been making you mango tarts ever since the tsunami."

"Oh." Gilligan laughed. "She makes them for Rusty, not me. She likes it when he does his crazy little dance for her."

The Skipper shook his head again. "What a character. Well, that bird's no chicken, I'll give him that. And neither is Mary Ann! She really went to bat for you."

"She sure did." Gilligan smiled gently for a moment before that smile morphed into a wicked grin. "And she sews real swell tea cosies – especially the blue ones with the little buttercups on them! Gee, Skipper, I don't think I'll ever forget how pretty you looked!"

"Is that so?" The Skipper turned to his sniggering first mate with a wicked grin of his own. "So you think I'm a good catcher, eh? Well, I want to tell you, I'm not a bad pitcher, either. Do you know what I'm going to go back to camp and tell them, Gilligan?"

"You want to throw a tea party?" Gilligan asked innocently.

"You just don't give up, do you?" Abruptly, the Skipper grabbed Gilligan's fishing rod, splashed his way to shore and tossed both rods onto the sand. When he returned his grin was as wide as his outstretched arms and grasping hands. "I'm going to say that the only catch I made today was so puny I had to throw it back in the ocean."

Gilligan backed up, eyes huge. "Oh, Skipper, you wouldn't…"

"Ready or not, here I come!" With a lightning lunge the big man sprang forward. Gilligan yelped and tried to make a dash for the open sea but the water slowed him down. A moment later the Skipper grabbed Gilligan around the waist and hoisted him up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Gilligan yelled and struggled, but with a massive arm around his back and another pinning his knees, he could only flail helplessly.

"Skipper!" Gilligan was laughing wildly, kicking his feet and half-heartedly pounding on the Skipper's broad back. "Put me down!"

"I intend to, little buddy!" The Skipper moved out into deeper water. "Any minute now!"

"Skipper!"

Ignoring him, the Skipper burst into song. "Anchors aweigh, my boys! Anchors aweigh!"

Gilligan was laughing too hard to sing.

The Skipper was in waist deep by now. As he felt the Skipper's grip relax, Gilligan lunged down and gripped the Skipper's belt. At the same moment the Skipper removed his hand from Gilligan's back and bent forwards. "Come on, sea. You missed him last time! Doop!"

The maneuver didn't go quite as planned as the shift in weight threw the big man off balance and they both tumbled headlong into the waves. After a few seconds of floundering and flailing Gilligan surfaced a good way closer to shore. He laughed as the Skipper came sputtering to the surface like a breaching whale.

"How's the water, Skipper?"

"Just fine, Gilligan!" The Skipper pulled his sodden cap onto his head and fished Gilligan's equally soggy one out of the water. He staggered up to his first mate, still laughing, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, my gosh. What'll we tell them when we get back to camp?"

"There was another tsunami?"

"Sure. Or the Admiral fell overboard. Whatever you say." The Skipper slapped the sopping wet sailor's cap on Gilligan's dark hair. "You're the star I steer by, little buddy. Don't ever forget it."

"Thanks, Skipper."

The sun burnished the two men as golden as the sky as they turned and splashed towards shore.

*********

Mrs. Howell exclaimed with delight at the fine spray of lacy red feathers in Mary Ann's favourite sunhat. "Oh, they're lovely, my dear! However did you come by them?"

"Oh, I just found them, Mrs. Howell," said Mary Ann.

"They're simply divine!"

After her friend had gone, Mary Ann pulled out the little note she had found on her cooking range that morning tied to the spray of feathers.

"From Rusty and me. (Don't worry – he's just moulting!) Thanks for the tarts, Mary Ann, and for sticking up for us. You're one in a million."

She smiled, fingering the note as she had once touched the shimmering wing of a wild bird. "So are you, Gilligan. So are you."

.