Daybreak saw the foursome already at the lagoon, watching the disappearance of the last vestiges of night. The sky that crowned the risen half-disk of the sun was deep amber, blanketed by mauve clouds above and the still, pale purple waters below. A ribbon of red flame shone upon the water where the red sunlight caressed it. Around the lagoon the stately palms kept watch like sentinels, only the very fringes of their fronds moving.

Russell was the first to break the silence. "You're named after a pretty thing, Dawn."

"Yeah," she said softly, drinking in the scene. "I sort of don't want to leave."

"I know what you mean," said Bob. "I'm nervous as heck, but I can't get over this place! Is it always like this, Skipper?"

"That depends, Bob. It can change with the seasons, the weather. Gilligan notices it the most. He says he's seen a hundred dawns and sunsets here, all of 'em different – and all beautiful." The Skipper looked longingly at the flaming sky. "Did I mention that I miss him? I mean…" he paused awkwardly and ran his hand through his graying blond hair. "No offense. You're real nice folks and all, but I'd like my passengers back. And my crew. Especially my crew."

Dawn nodded. "We understand."

The Skipper took a deep breath. "And now we'd better get serious. This mission has to have perfect coordination. We'll only have one shot at scaring off those natives with this powder. The rest we've got to keep in reserve to send you back. Dawn, you better stick close to Russell and me."

The petite brunette nodded again, shuddering, as she crept closer to Russell. "I intend to stick to the two of you like glue, Skipper!"

The Skipper lit the oil-soaked end of a stick with a match and picked up the half-gourd of powder. Another lay at his feet. "Bob, when those natives appear you get ready to move. You run straight out into that water and maybe we can kill two birds with one stone." At Bob's dire look the Skipper bit his tongue. "Oops…sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"Be careful, Bob!" cried Dawn.

"Don't take any chances, Bobby!" urged Russell, testing the weight of his crude club.

"Don't worry, I won't."

"'Cause you're the star of the show. If we lose you, the ratings'll go through the floor!"

"Thanks a lot, Russ." Bob rolled his eyes but knew that his friend's concern was absolutely genuine. With unsteady steps he went to the tall drums they had set up on the sand about twenty feet away. It felt like twenty miles. At last he reached them and seated himself on the high bamboo stool they'd brought. Taking a deep breath, the actor looked around nervously and cracked his knuckles. "Here goes, daddy-o."

Closing his eyes, Bob began to beat out a gentle, swinging jazz rhythm. As his fingers fluttered and danced above the taut hide he began to rock slowly back and forth, lost in the music. Hypnotized, his mind drifted back to the coffee bars of L.A. and the inspiration for Maynard G. Krebs, to the beatniks and the heady beat of the ever-present bongos. Faster and faster, harder and harder went his hands, quickening the throb and pulse of the drums, like the wild heartbeat of the jungle itself.

And the jungle answered, a lot sooner and louder than Bob expected.

Leaping from the jungle in a chorus of bloodcurdling shrieks, three, six, no – ten ferocious tattooed warriors burst onto the scene, brandishing spears and machetes. This close up it was horribly clear that their bizarre face markings were no make-up, the slivers of bone bristling in their wild hair and impaling their noses no product of a Hollywood wardrobe department. These were the real thing: cannibal headhunters.

Russell swung his club in a protective arc as Dawn screamed and hid behind him. Bob screamed nearly as loudly and fell backwards off his stool as one of the headhunters aimed a vicious machete blow at him. The blow split the stool in half. Bob scrambled backwards, eyeing the skulls that swung at the waist of the savage's grass skirt. They weren't props…and neither was the machete.

The speed of the savages' attack, coupled with their much greater numbers had stunned their quarry. "Skipper! Light the powder! Hurry!" cried Dawn.

The Skipper was way ahead of her. The flame was inches from the gourd when a native spear came shooting at him and knocked the gourd from his hand. He yelped, snatching back his hand and coughing as the white cloud of powder drifted around him. Dawn and Russell leaped back as the spear thudded into a tree and stuck there, quivering.

Bob hadn't seen this. "Skipper! What are you waiting for?" he shouted, desperately hiding behind the tall drums, edging one way and the next as the savage on the other side tried to fake him out. "When these guys yell cut they mean it!"

Dawn snatched up the other gourd. "Skipper! You'll have to use this one!"

"But Bob can't get to the water! If we set the powder off now, we may never be able to make the switch!"

"Skipper, we've got to save Bob's life! Not to mention our own!"

By now eight of the fierce savages had fanned out to surround the Skipper, Dawn and Russell, their snarls showing off teeth that had been filed to a point. The trio heard Bob yelp as a native that had snuck up behind him pinioned him by the arms. His original pursuer approached with a wicked grin and a wickedly gleaming blade.

The Skipper looked at his first mate's stricken look-alike and swallowed hard. "I know what my little buddy would do. Give me the gourd, Dawn!" As the circle of natives around them tightened he held the still burning stick threateningly over the last of the powder. "All right, fellas! Ready or not, here it comes!"

And it did come – with a roar almost as loud as the one made by the ten natives combined.

The Skipper stood frozen, the hand with the torch still poised above the powder. Dawn and Russell were frozen too. In fact, they nearly forgot the natives altogether at the sight of the latecomer that had suddenly crashed the party.

"Arnold!" Bob gasped, and nearly fainted in relief.

It was indeed the gigantic silverback gorilla. The monstrous beast raced around, snorting and gibbering, to finally rise on its muscular hind legs and beat its barrel of a chest with a mighty roar.

The natives nearly fainted too – but not in relief. Bob actually felt a little sorry for them. After all, Arnold was scary-looking enough, even to someone who knew what a gorilla was. But judging by the natives' expressions, it was all too apparent that Gilligan's Island's crazy writers had never put any African mountain gorillas onto other South Pacific islands. The headhunters had no idea what Arnold was. Horrified, they stared at Arnold as though he were Kona the god of evil risen in all his glory. Then they shrieked, and in a flurry of grass skirts all ten leaped in the air and ran for their lives.

Arnold was delighted. Like a hound in a flock of chickens he scattered the natives this way and that, spinning and charging and lunging at anything that moved. The headhunters fell over each other trying to get out of his path. At one point the ape's enormous hand reached out and snagged the fringe of a grass skirt. One mighty tug and Dawn had to hide her eyes. The native shrieked and dashed into the bushes, grabbing frantically at some large leaves.

Then Arnold whirled on the two natives that had been menacing Bob. That unfortunate pair had already let their captive go and were backing up, whimpering. Arnold reared his towering height again and pounded out an ear-splitting tattoo on his chest.

"My hero!" cried Bob.

"AAAAAH!" cried the two brave warriors.

Arnold dropped to the ground and charged. He hared the two screaming savages 'round and 'round the drums until one, the bolder (or maybe the crazier) of the two stopped and brandished his spear with a shaking arm. Arnold caught hold of the spear and bit down on the middle of the shaft like a dog with a favourite bone. One gnash of his jaws and the spear snapped in two.

That did it. The two natives scampered past Bob, nearly knocking him over in their mad dash for the lagoon.

Meanwhile, their more enterprising comrades were dragging their outriggers from the bushes in a frenzied tug-of-war. Some were already paddling desperately across the lagoon at a speed that would put the best Olympic crew to shame. One crew that kept casting terrified glances backwards forgot to look where they were going, slammed prow first into the opposite shore and neatly toppled over. Another group's boat was still on the beach, snagged in the creepers. Arnold raced up to the frantically struggling crew and hoisted the canoe, dangling natives and all, into the air. Then he launched it like a rocket ten feet into the water. When the great splash had subsided the clinging, kicking natives climbed aboard and paddled for all they were worth.

Somehow, though, they must have ruptured their hull while trying to free the canoe from the bushes for as they paddled the outrigger slowly began to sink. The water soon lapped at the gunwales but the natives never broke the rhythm of their hectic stroke. Even as the boat disappeared beneath the surface the still-seated natives still paddled until they were in up to their necks and had to swim. They splashed after their fellows, kicking up a mighty wake, until they all 'rounded the bend at the end of the lagoon and disappeared from sight.

Arnold stood motionless on the shore, watching as the lavender-purple dawn waters of the lagoon gradually calmed. When the last traces of the invaders had gone he turned and lumbered on his knuckles over to where Bob was leaning, shaky with relief, against the drums. Bob smiled weakly at his simian saviour. "Thanks, Arnold," he murmured. "And thanks to Gilligan, for teaching you tag!"

The hulking primate snorted softly. Before Bob could react, a pair of colossal hairy arms wrapped around him and he was lifted off his feet in a gentle but very inescapable embrace. Then just as gently the great ape set him on the ground, drubbed the tops of the drums with his massive hands, and shuffled off into the jungle.

For a moment the Skipper, Russell and Dawn stood there as if pole-axed, goggling at Bob as he slumped against the drums. Then, as though on cue, the threesome burst into roars of laughter.

"Say, Bob, Gilligan's gonna be thrilled. He's been trying to teach Arnold how to play the drums for ages now!" Nearly doubled over with laughter, the Skipper was in danger of dropping the gourd. "But he's still gotta work on shaking hands!"

Dawn and Russell hung onto each other, laughing so hard they were in pain. "Bobby, I think you've got a new fan!"

"Maybe we should tell Sherwood. What a great scene! That was hilarious!"

"Yeah! You just try it, Russ, and I'll tell him about the Professor's exploding experiments!"

This set Dawn, Russell and the Skipper off all over again. Bob staggered over to them, still panting from his exertions. "Skipper, this island's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here!"

"I'll second that," laughed Dawn, as even Bob joined in the merriment. "You folks are remarkable: all of you. You're a lot better at being castaways than we are!"

"Yeah!" Russell agreed. "It's been a privilege. I only wish we could have met all seven of you."

Dawn took the gourd from the Skipper to free his hand, and the Skipper grasped Russell's in a hearty shake. "It was nice to meet you, too, Russell. Safe trip back." Then the big man laughed as Dawn jumped into the curve of his free arm and gave him a kiss. "Aw, thanks, Dawn. You're every bit the sweetheart Mary Ann is. You take care now."

The two moved aside as Bob approached the Skipper. The old sea-dog shook his head in fond exasperation. "You can get yourself into as much trouble as Gilligan, that's for sure. Don't get into any more trouble on the way back."

Bob rolled his eyes and laughed. "I'll do my best! But I am glad we made it here; most of all because I got to meet you. You're one man in a thousand, Skipper." He smiled a quiet smile. "Say hi to him for me, will you?"

"I will, Bob," the Skipper promised. He looked at the others. "I'll say hi to everybody. From all of you."

Bob reached out and gripped the Skipper's arm firmly. "You seven take care of each other, all right? And don't give up."

"We won't. You've got my word on that. Bye, folks."

"Bye, Skipper."

With a deep breath and a last, undeniably fond look at the beautiful island, Bob fished the amulet out of his collar and looked at his cast-mates. "Well, here goes nothing!" He turned and splashed off into the water, diving when it got waist deep.

On the shore the Skipper took the gourd from Dawn. She and Russell got out their amulets and stood clutching each other by the arms, fingers crossed for luck. The Skipper lifted the torch. "Hang on tight now! Good luck!"

The flame sparked the white powder.

Flash! Clap!

Bob shot to the surface and shook the water from his eyes. When he looked around, he gave a whoop of joy that was echoed by Dawn's and Russell's.

Above was the slightly grey November sky, and the spotlights and cameras on the fringe of the lagoon were manned by a host of puzzled looking crew that were staring at one broken light. Dawn and Russell cheered and danced as a very unhappy Leslie Godwins looked on, tapping his riding crop against his booted leg.

"We did it! We made it!" yelled Bob, ignoring the chill as he splashed onto the shore and grabbed his cast-mates in a wet, soppy hug. "We're back!"

The euphoric trio turned to their fuming director. "Leslie! You won't believe what just happened to us!"

"I don't ruddy well believe what's just happened to me! Three days we've been trying to get this scene filmed, and now the light goes again and the three of you go mad! I've had enough. Tell Harmon we can't do this script: we'll have to go with Howard's twaddle about Gilligan turning invisible! Sam, that's a wrap for today! Cut!"

Finis