Why am I doing this, you ask? I'm asking that, too.
I mean, this is semi-intentionally going to be a trainwreck. We start with the Skipper highkey depressed, Professor and Mary Ann having an illicit affair, Ginger as a drug addict, and the Howells having been separated for years. Honestly, I've done everything but inexplicably make Gilligan a gang leader.
Well, okay, to be fair, I do actually have a plan for the storyline, so I'm actually a bit ahead of the CW in that regard.
Anyway, for real, drop a comment with every reference you caught to the original Gilligan's Island show. Ten points per reference.
/
101: "Murphy's Law"
"Anything that can go wrong will go wrong."
Summer nights lasted so long. The Hawaiian humidity crept into every corner of the bar the old skipper frequented, where dirty countertops were sticky with alcohol and sweat. Outside, his first mate waited faithfully, one year too young to enter the bar. For that, the old skipper was inwardly grateful.
This was no place for anyone with a single shred of innocence left.
"This, of course, raises questions about potential."
Thurston Howell III sucked on a cigar. He gazed out into the crowd—young women, young men, all of them seemingly without a care in the world. For the night, he was one of them, if only for his image. There was champagne, wine, vodka, all the finest reserves, and money flowing like blood.
His wife was miles away, probably hosting a far more eloquent party, probably making good use of his money.
She was the last thing on his mind.
"There are practically infinite ways anything could go wrong."
Ginger Grant. The name everyone knew. The face, the perfect body, the child star who grew into a redheaded bombshell right there in the public eye.
The movie star.
The sweetheart seductress.
The addict.
"Does the universe know which is the worst?"
The university professor looked out at the classroom, let them ponder the question for a moment before continuing.
"Murphy's Law is a simple phrase that leads to a veritable array of logical contradictions and philosophical impossibilities. Objects—an innocent die, for instance—would have an agenda. Motives."
"Objects, of course, are just objects. The universe does not work against us. It is we who create chaos, who submit to errors."
He skimmed the room again, avoided meeting one pair of wide eyes.
"Only us."
As the other students—bored, dull-eyed, and sleep-deprived—shuffled out of the classroom to continue, move on with their day, their lives, the Professor began to pack his bag.
As if he could be that lucky.
Indeed, something was about to go very wrong.
"Roy?"
The Professor froze with one arm halfway to his bag, the heavy binder in his hand weighing it down.
"Please, Mary Ann—uh, Miss Summers—in the classroom, it's Professor Hinkley."
"Oh, I'm awfully sorry, Professor," she corrected herself. Sweet girl. "I was just hoping we could talk about… things." Her voice lowered unconsciously, but somehow kept its hopeful twinge.
"Alright, well, come in during office hours—"
"Actually I was thinking maybe something else," Mary Ann said with a playful, conspiratorial tone. She slipped the Professor an envelope. "Keep that to yourself."
And then she breezed out of the classroom as though nothing had happened.
The Professor realized he was holding his breath, then released it with a huff. He tore open the envelope, breathing still strained from stress and… something else.
The moment he opened the envelope, he could smell her. She had dusted the paper inside with her perfume, he realized as the scent of ambergris and alcohol consumed him. A strange combination of excitement and dread crept through his veins as he read the contents in the emptied classroom.
Roy,
I'm a simple girl. I'm from Kansas, and the one crazy thing I've ever done is going to school in Hawaii, so far from home. I'm studying agriculture (but your class is by far my favorite!) so that I can work my best on my father's farm. I've had steady boyfriends before, but nothing's worked out.
I'll be blunt. I'm not looking for a secret relationship. I'm not looking for hookups after hours in the dark.
I think what we have is real. I never would have sought you out if I didn't think we could have something real.
I know there's a little age gap and a big issue regarding our status, but I want to talk about it, at least.
I want you, plain and simple.
Meet me at Kona Café at 5 tonight if you're willing to talk.
All my faith,
Mary Ann
Outside, the hallway buzzed. Fellow professors, superiors, students wandered the halls. Hundreds of people who could never know. Mary Ann was no doubt among them, carrying their heavy secret.
/
"Mr. Howell?"
Howell was still bleary-eyed from sleep (and bourbon), but he opened one eye at the sound of his assistant's voice.
"Wh—"
"Mr. Howell!" The assistant's voice was harsher now. Not abnormal, but it made Howell straighten up a bit.
"What?" Howell reluctantly sat up in his silk sheets, surveyed the million-dollar bedroom he'd crashed in the night before.
"There's… a bit of a problem."
"Out with it, then."
"It's an online confession."
"Get to the point, boy."
"It seems one of your… conquests…" At that, Howell rolled his eyes. "…has publicly retold the story of when they met you."
That got Mr. Howell's attention. A moment to process the information, then, "How bad is it?"
"We can control it. Your company's public relations team is on it with a wad of cash, all you have to do is sign a couple papers and hopefully the post will be taken down or discredited."
"Thank God."
"But…" the assistant was hesitant, his voice dropping the way it did when he knew Howell was about to be unhappy.
"But what?"
"But, we can't undo what's already been put out there. We need to do damage control."
"Meaning?"
His assistant sighed. "You need to show the public real love. Love for your wife."
Howell grimaced, opened his mouth, then thought better of it.
"There's nothing more romantic than Hawaii at sunset." Howell's assistant's gloved hands produced one slim piece of paper: a boat ticket. "I've arranged a romantic boating trip for you and the missus. The ocean, sunset, starlight, music. Fine wine."
"I'm sure it won't be fine enough. Sounds dreadfully commonplace," Howell said, pushing away the ticket.
"Exactly." His assistant foisted them toward Howell again. "You'll be seen. The fact of you two sharing a romantic evening might be enough to displace the mere claim of your infidelity."
Howell scowled, thought about consulting the old teddy bear beside him.
His assistant wouldn't have it. "The whole trip shouldn't take more than three hours. It'll sail out to Maui and then back again. If you must, you and the missus can cut the trip short. Get off in Maui and sleep there."
"Certainly not together."
"Of course not. You can take the house, and I can arrange for your wife to sleep in the nicest hotel the island has to offer."
The house? "Oh, yes." Mr. Howell remembered. "I forget about our house in Maui." That settled it. If a clean reputation meant a mere three hour tour, Howell could handle it. "I'll meet you there, then." He dismissed his assistant with a wave of his hand.
"I'll begin packing your bags." Packing for a Howell was no small task, so he left immediately, leaving Mr. Howell still lying in bed, still a bit drunk from the night before, and anxious to the core.
/
Louise.
She was the one who goes on a boat trip.
Louise goes on a boat trip. Louise gets drunk? Louise falls overboard.
Didn't that happen in the third Power Fantasy movie? She could no longer remember. It had been a long time ago, and the third one, according to critics and audiences alike, suffered a huge drop in quality.
Ginger Grant shook her head. If it was Louise who had gone on a boat trip so many years ago, why was it Ginger who was holding a boat ticket?
She glanced around, disoriented but not yet afraid. This was becoming the norm, blurred lines between reality and fiction. No cameras. No crew. No director in a big folding chair shouting through a bullhorn, telling her what to do.
Ginger felt a pang of disappointment. She was on her own.
Alone in a trashy hotel room that reeked of alcohol and maybe sex. Hard to tell which scents were new and which had been there when Ginger checked in. Either way, she needed a shower.
The sound of the water flowing was like static in her ears, and when she stepped under the flow, it felt like static on her skin. Irritated, she tried to remember why she had bought a boat ticket.
Six boat tickets, that is. She mused for a moment, wondered which five people she had imagined joining her. She couldn't remember all the peripheral roles, Louise's story in the film. Maybe she had five friends. Ginger would have to check the script.
Speaking of which, she remembered with relief that it was Saturday. Freedom.
After minutes of scrubbing herself with the smallest bar of soap known to man and emptying the single ounce of shampoo allotted by the hotel into her red hair, Ginger realized that she wasn't getting much cleaner in the shower; even it felt dirty, it was probably a more popular hookup spot than the bed.
She shut off the water and wrapped herself in the ratty towel, trying not to think of what the last person to use it might have been like, how grotesque.
She was a goddamn movie star, Ginger thought bitterly. She shouldn't have to endure these conditions. She shuffled back into the bedroom, where she'd left her purse and the six boarding passes.
Boarding Pass
S.S. Minnow, Exotic Trip
Depart: Honolulu (Oahu): 1800.
Arrive: Kaunakakai (Molokai), Lanai, Kahoolawe, Kahului (Maui), Honolulu (Oahu).
THIS IS YOUR TICKET TO BOARD, SEA YOU SOON!
Apparently, she could have her pick of spending the weekend on five different Hawaiian islands. Ginger grinned. Perks of shooting a movie on set.
Why not live like Louise? Get a little drunk, take a little trip…
Ginger smiled and held one of the tickets to her chest.
She would only need the one.
/
Gilligan was nervous. Never a good sign.
He was twenty years old and a screw-up. That was it, that was the truth. He was lucky to have the Skipper's support, but he would be luckier to make it through the evening without spilling soup or wine on the passengers.
One of which was a movie star.
Two of which were billionaires.
Gilligan's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't even old enough to be drinking the wine they'd serve; why had the Skipper placed so much faith in his little buddy?
"Skipper—" Gilligan started the question as his captain made his way out of the bar. The bar Gilligan was a year too young to even set foot in.
"All set," the Skipper grumbled. He wasn't upset with Gilligan, Gilligan knew. He was just upset. About what, he had never said. "Remind me what tonight is?"
"Wine and dine tour across the islands," Gilligan said dutifully. "Small trip, but, um, I was looking at the ticket sales, and there are some pretty big names."
"Oh, great," Skipper said sourly. "I hate this one. All the tourists asking if they can tour the islands, if we can pick them up later, getting drunk and silly or cranky… Whose idea was this, anyway?"
"It must be popular because—"
"And it goes till the wee hours of the morning. Ugh! Why can't everyone just get off in Maui and be done with it?"
"Skipper, the Howells are going to be on the trip. And Ginger Grant!"
That got Skipper's attention. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, stunned. "The Howells? Ginger Grant?"
"Yes, sir."
"Alright, Gilligan." The Skipper was already making a game plan in his head, Gilligan could tell. He smiled inwardly, grateful to have such a man as his mentor. "Here's what we'll do. You go home and grab us some extra nice clothes to put on when the ship sets out. I'll run down to the liquor store and get us some exceptional booze. And, well, what do movie stars like?"
"Movies?"
"Movies," Skipper looked annoyed and Gilligan knew he'd given the wrong answer. "Right, well, since we can't play movies on the ship, why don't we just stick with the nice clothes and booze?"
"Alright." Gilligan paused. "But, Skipper, shouldn't we treat all our passengers like millionaires and movie stars? The best of the best."
The Skipper let out a long, annoyed sigh. "Well, sure, we should, but some folks just have higher standards."
"Hmm. I guess you're right."
"And Gilligan?"
"Yes, Skipper?"
"Do not foul anything up on this trip."
"Yes, Skipper."
The five hours before the tour started crawled by agonizingly slowly. Gilligan checked and rechecked the meals for the night (steak or fish dinners, almost entirely prepared; why a billionaire couple and a movie star would want reheated, second-tier steaks was beyond Gilligan). He checked the ship's wine rack, below deck, that housed over 100 bottles for all the future tours. Surely none would be vintage enough for the Howells. He hoped Skipper knew what he was doing.
1800 and Gilligan was under strict orders from the Skipper to act as though the next voyage of the S.S. Minnow was like any other. Still, Gilligan could hardly contain his nerves. He felt dreadfully underdressed; he hadn't thought to dress a step above a red collared shirt.
1830 and the ship was sailing. Gilligan hadn't seen any of the passengers yet—the Skipper was the one to take their boarding passes. Gilligan waited patiently for the meals to heat, and heard a crackle from the radio.
Skipper, calling from the wheel.
"Little Buddy? Over."
Gilligan braced himself for the worst.
"Here, Skipper, over."
"You're only going to need to heat up fourteen dinners. There are a few empty seats on the ship. Over."
"Oh. Okay. Over and out." Gilligan hung up the radio as he had a million times. Now, he was shaking with anticipation to meet the passengers. A half an hour crept by as the meals heated, and Gilligan made sure to bring out the Howells' meals first, as the Skipper had ordered before they set out.
"Now, I must confess that I find you more radiant and lovely than first imaginable, but the ugly truth is that—"
Across the table from Ginger Grant, who was to receive her dinner third, a man in a light blue dress shirt was speaking softly to an adorable girl with black pigtails. Gilligan tried not to eavesdrop—the Skipper had said it was rude—but it was hard not to overhear when the girl screamed.
Bad breakup? He made a mental note to serve the girl some of the fancy wine the Skipper had purchased, even if he had claimed that it was only for the Howells and the movie star.
"Oh—" the girl let out a sort of choked cry, as if she'd just realized the terrible noise she made. When she spoke again, she whispered, but actually sounded excited. "That's Ginger Grant!"
"That's whom?" her apparent date asked. Had he been living under a rock for the past few years?
"Ginger Grant!" the girl repeated quietly as Gilligan brought Ginger's dish closer. Except for a quick glance when the girl had screamed, Ginger didn't seem to be listening in to their conversation. He dropped off her dish with a smile before retreating to the kitchen.
Gilligan, meeting a movie star! He could have screamed like the girl at the other table.
/
When their food came, the Howells still had not said more than three words to each other. The limo had picked up Mr. Howell first, Mrs. Howell fifteen minutes later. When they were both together, the paparazzi had been "anonymously tipped off" and by the time the couple got to the docks, a healthy handful of photographers were waiting.
Wordlessly, the Howells held hands as they made their way onto the ship. They exchanged a kiss—not too long, not too brief—before boarding, as agreed.
The publicity of it all would have made a regular couple uncomfortable, and because Howell hadn't so much as seen his wife in five years, the entire ordeal made him squirm.
Apparently, the boat trip wouldn't be enough to convince the public that Howell wasn't a slimeball who cheats on his wife. No, that would have been too easy. Instead, Howell's team insisted they be seen together in public all week.
At least they'd sleep in separate beds, across the house.
It occurred to Howell as his meal arrived that, even though there didn't appear to be any cameras on board the ship, there were at least a dozen pairs of eyes on them.
Cutting into his steak, Howell forced a smile at his wife. "How have you been?" he asked, his face bright but his words quiet and cautious.
"I could sleep with other men if I wanted to." Lovey Howell clearly had the same intentions as her husband; she spoke with venom, but kept her face lively and content. "I, apparently, am the only one to care about the Howell-Wentworth reputation."
Howell couldn't think of a refute, so he gave her a tremendous fake smile and leaned back in his chair, resigned to eating in silence once again.
/
"That's Ginger Grant!" Mary Ann squealed. "I'm sure of it!" She was so flooded with excitement that she had almost forgotten what was about to happen.
She was sweet, but not stupid. She could tell from the moment the Professor had arrived that he intended to end things that night. The thought made her heart sink.
Seeing her favorite movie star lifted it right back up.
"Who?"
Mary Ann turned back to Professor, pointedly dropped her jaw. "What, you've never seen The Rain Dancers of Rango Rango?"
"The what?"
"Bimbofication?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Bimbofication! People are talking Oscars!"
"Or, come on, Power Fantasy? That was a big movie. It's a classic!"
"I can't say I watch many movies. I find myself overbooked with classes, research, and writing. I don't even own a television."
"Oh." Mary Ann wasn't sure what to say. She found the Professor's devotion to science and fascination with the world inspiring, endearing, but she was beginning to realize that they might not have much in common. "So what do you do for fun?"
"Mary Ann, I teach twelve classes, I help out at the research lab, and I am compiling a book of my academic writings. I don't have time for fun."
Mary Ann recoiled, and she could see in the Professor's face that he realized what he had said.
"Usually." Professor picked at his fish. "I… I do enjoy our time together." He took a deep breath. Things were about to get bad, Mary Ann realized. "But this is just one more reason we can't be together. I am consumed by work. I was lonely that night and I didn't realize what I was doing…"
"What does that mean?"
"What?"
"That you didn't realize what you were doing. It wasn't an accident."
"No…" the Professor fumbled. "Not, not like that. I didn't realize who you were. And I had a rare free night, and I didn't realize you were a student until it was nearly too late."
"I recognized you right away. I said 'It's nice to see you again.'" Mary Ann crossed her arms. "Who did you think I was?"
"I have a lot of students. The university is criminally underfunded and I teach twelve different classes…"
/
For a pauper's trip, the S.S. Minnow had a beautiful view at sunset. When the light hit her just right, Mr. Howell could see his wife for who she was years ago. Young. Beautiful. Spirited.
The truth is that he had no idea who she was anymore.
"What have you been up to?" Mr. Howell asked, surprising himself with the question. Maybe it was the fact that he was so used to making conversation with lovely ladies, maybe Mrs. Howell was just another in a long line of beautiful people.
But she looked surprised, too. "Is someone still staring?" she asked, her voice low.
Howell considered lying. "No. I'm just curious as to what my wife is up to these days. How you've been spending my money," he added, just to stay in character. Of course, he knew exactly how she'd been spending his money. Their marriage, which was a beautifully-constructed lie from the start, had been very clear about how she was to spend Howell money and how he was to spend Wentworth money. The goal, of course, was to have more in the end. Howell never had trouble with the end goal.
Lovey, on the other hand…
In the first ten years, he'd seen her spending every penny she could spare (without intense scrutiny from her relatives and, well, himself) on charity cases.
Those numbers had been falling off in the recent years, though. Howell wondered if it was something the Wentworths squelched or if his wife had just grown out of her charitable whims.
In any case, he already knew that Lovey was mainly working on her culture. Theatre, galleries, cotillions. She was actually the kind of person Mr. Howell pretended to be when he was in public. He was glad the media, the most influential families tended to gravitate to her rather than him. After all, she loved a good interview, and always welcomed people into her homes with open arms.
Howell wondered if she would welcome him back, should he ever need to retreat to her.
Probably not. "I've been becoming my best self." Her voice was ice.
"No more charity work?"
"No," she said curtly, which made Howell smile. A frugal wife, he thought, is the best kind.
"What?" she asked.
"It's been too long."
His wife looked confused, maybe a bit angry.
Slightly scared of her, Howell continued. "Maybe it's just the evening sky talking, but I wouldn't mind staying on this ship a bit longer."
"We're supposed to get off in Maui," she reminded him.
"I can get my pilot to fly us there."
"Our pilot," Lovey corrected him.
"It's just been a long time since I've seen the ocean." Mr. Howell was almost awed by its expanse, the sun setting pink along the water, the music floating loftily from the speakers on the little ship. With another drink, he might even find it a religious experience. Even sober, Howell had to admit that even though the ship was cheap, it was admirable for cutting through the endless ocean.
The whole experience was downright quaint.
"I want to stay here," Mr. Howell said, more to the ocean than to Lovey. "Just a little longer."
Forever.
Twenty years ago, Lovey would have rolled her eyes. She'd been utterly unreserved then. Now, her face only tensed, and she said quietly, "Fine. Anything to keep you in this world a tad longer."
Whatever that meant.
/
Skipper wasn't upset about not seeing the celebrities up close and personal. He had other things on his mind. Celebrities might have impressed him years ago, before the war and before 1997.
Now, he had his mind on other things.
The tour was almost over; they were headed back to Honoloulou. Most of the passengers were gone; only five remained now, evidently making the round trip. He had done the voyage a hundred times. It wasn't something he had to think about.
Maybe just hadn't realized the storm had been brewing for a while. Or maybe the storm came out of nowhere.
The first thing that happened was the rain.
It came in a downburst, soaking the dining area.
Gilligan radioed in and told Skipper that he was taking the passengers below deck.
Skipper didn't even respond.
Lightning and thunder began to take the sky.
They were so few nautical miles from the shore. It should have been so easy to return. But, there were no ports, no safe beaches, Skipper knew.
Then the wind came.
Skipper had never seen anything like it.
He radioed Gilligan for help, and Gilligan immediately appeared in the cockpit. Even in the throes of the storm, the Skipper felt a rush of relief that he had such a loyal first mate.
Still grasping the wheel, he urged Gilligan to radio for help.
They were helpless against the sea.
/
"Oh, what's happening?" Mary Ann shrunk into the Professor's arms, despite their earlier discussion.
"It's fine," the Professor said, meaning to reassure only her, but temporarily easing the minds of the other three passengers. "It's just a small storm, we're down here to keep from getting wet, that's all."
"He's right," Mr. Howell tried to assure his wife.
"Of cou—" Mrs. Howell began, just before the ship lurched dangerously, sending the passengers stumbling into the port side wall.
"Probably just rerouting," Professor said, though everyone could hear the waver in his voice.
Again, the ship seemed to leap, sending the passengers floundering.
There was a moment of horrible silence in the cabin, the ran pounding against the deck above, the wind howling like a mad dog, and the S.S. Minnow itself creaking and churning. Professor clung to Mary Ann, Mr. Howell to his estranged wife, and Ginger to an empty bottle of wine.
Another lurch that turned into another and another. Cinematically, the lights and the music flickered off, slow at first, coming on and off, and then definitively, permanently. Soon, the passengers were on the ground, unable to stand without falling.
"What's going on?" Mary Ann wailed. She sounded very young and very, very scared.
"I'll sue!" Mr. Howell barked in vain.
"I'm way too sober to die," Ginger muttered under her breath. The booze had actually been incredible, and she'd taken a little orange pill that made her not want to move at all. In the face of danger, though, it was nowhere near enough.
Maybe an hour went by. Maybe two, maybe six. Each passenger would later surmise a different duration; none were watching their watches or their phones, except to check for service so they could phone for help. (There was none, of course. They were in the middle of the goddamn open ocean.) For everyone, though, the turmoil seemed to last a lifetime.
Had they died then, Mary Ann's last thoughts would have been of her father's farm in Kansas, so far away. Below deck, as the storm raged on, she thought of how they would miss her, how she would miss them, wherever she went. Here, she had tried being adventurous, travelling to Hawaii, and, she thought dispiritedly.
And as Professor held her, he felt a tremendous wave of guilt. It was his fault Mary Ann was here. It was his fault she would probably die minutes after being rejected. And how would he himself be remembered? An overworked professor who barely knew his students or his coworkers, who had made no real contributions to science. If he'd believed in a god, he would have prayed for more time.
Thurston Howell III. He was in his fifties, but he might as well have been twenty. He had no children, no close friends, and no real legacy. In that moment, he didn't even have his money or his reputation. All he had was the woman he'd been foisted into a marriage with, a woman he'd scarcely seen in the past thirty years.
Lovey Wentworth-Howell remembered the vast expanse of the ocean even her husband had admired so recently, so fondly, imagined how the waves would certainly rush up to swallow all seven people on the Minnow. Money was useless against the storm. Even the Captain and first mate's efforts were surely fruitless. Lovey Howell was powerless.
Ginger Grant? She wondered what she was supposed to do in a situation like this. Was she one to cry or wail? Or was she more the stoic type? She pondered the questions as the ship rocked violently. It seemed very important, suddenly, that she not think of Louise from Power Fantasy or Hallowell from Bimbofication. Her last thought would have been simply the words Ginger Guggenheimer, a name she'd barely thought of since her she began using a stage name so many years ago.
And then there was the crew.
The first mate was far from mighty or fearless in the face of death. He was quaking, quite literally, in his boots. He was far too young to die. He wanted to live.
The Skipper kept his fears at bay. The truth was that the world had little to offer him anymore. Everything seemed tired, tedious, depressing, and yet life had carried on for decades. If he ever got home safely, Skipper would find himself going through the torturous motions, sailing back and forth, living only in memories. If he died? If he died, the Skipper hoped he would see his children again. He hoped vehemently that he would see his son and daughter in some afterlife, that they were happy somewhere else, that they weren't tortured on this earth.
And yet, he had a responsibility. He was responsible for the Howells, for Ginger Grant, for Mary Ann Summers, for Professor Hinkley. Most importantly, he was responsible for Gilligan.
He couldn't live with himself if he let something happen to Gilligan, too.
/
The ship set ground before dawn, the world a velvet black, illuminated only when lightning struck in the distance.
The storm was behind them, and the world was silent and dark.
"Gilligan."
Gilligan pried his hands off the transmitter, which he'd been using to try to guide Skipper away from the storm and toward the harbor.
Evidently, it hadn't worked.
He wobbled as he made his way to the Skipper, arms out to ensure he didn't crash into anything on his way.
"Skipper?"
A light came on in the cockpit: Skipper had found a flashlight.
"Emergency kit," Skipper told him before handing Gilligan the second flashlight. "Bring this to the passengers and tell them we've run aground, but we'll be found soon." He rustled around in the kit, drudged out five blankets. "They can get some rest. We have the AIS and a transmitter. Help should be here by morning."
"Yes, sir."
"And Gilligan?"
"Yes, Skipper?"
"Don't go outside."
/
Had they died during the storm, perhaps the passengers would have died with clear minds, hard truths, but utter understanding. They had been resigned to death just hours ago, and yet the new certainty of life was disorienting.
They had lived. They had a flashlight, blankets, and the first mate.
There was hope below the deck of the ship, despite the vast unknown outside, despite the dread that rose in their chests when the silence outside was broken. When, far away, a cry echoed from outside. A low, somber howl that rang in the castaways' ears long after the world was once again silent.
/
Thank you all so much for willingly reading this trash fire! Remember to comment with any references to the original show that you caught (or whatever else you want to say) and I'll be eternally grateful!