A/N: Well. It's summer, which means I'm back into Gilligan's Island, which means the reboot is back! To the two people who are actually reading this: I hope you like it. This chapter is entirely too long but every word is for you!
/
103: "Drowned"
"Joy, sadness, fear, anger, disgust, surprise, and interest are commonly thought of as the core basic emotions, meaning that they are present and expressed the same way across cultures within the first year of human life. They are present to allow us to react to our most basic needs and wants: making sure we eat, that we're cared for, that we learn. But, of course, we continue to develop. We learn, we adapt.
"So these basic emotions fail to capture the human experience beyond the first year. We develop self-awareness around age two, and with it comes embarrassment or shame. Often unwanted complexities come about when we begin to recognize ourselves and strive to fit in and contribute to rather than simply react to the world around us.
"Responsibility… guilt… all complex feeling that are essential for humans to succeed, to work together. These socially learned feelings and emotions are not inherent but are key to our survival."
/
Skipper was awake before the rest of the castaways. He was the captain, and even though he couldn't figure out a way to get inside the huts yet, he had to keep trying. If there was something inside that the castaways could use, he would make sure the castaways would get their hands on it.
The sun was high in the sky by the time all the castaways were awake. Stiff and still tired, they were moving slowly, exploring the huts that lined the jungle.
"Gilligan."
"Yeah, Skipper?"
"Gather the other passengers," Skipper said, fiddling with the door on the largest hut, the central hut. "We might have a little work to do."
Gilligan nodded dutifully, and a few moments later, the castaways were standing around Skipper. The tropical sun was beating down, and all the castaways were drenched in sweat. They looked fatigued, ragged, ranging from annoyed to terrified. It was up to the ship's Skipper to ease their minds.
"Now, I know we've been here for too long—" the Skipper opened, but was quickly cut off.
"Too long? The fact that we're here at all is a flaming outrage," Mrs. Howell groused.
"Really, Captain, if we ever make it back to the mainland, I will see to it that your seafaring days end!" Mr. Howell ranted. "This is an utter outrage, a complete fiasco, and…"
"Are we going to be here forever?" Mary Ann asked anxiously. She looked on the verge of panic. "I mean… This is a desert island, right? And… and we have no way off… Are we going to die here?"
"I'm sorry, I think I'm a little hungover or something, I must have missed it…" Ginger mumbled, looking around and rubbing her head. "We're stuck on a desert island?"
"Everyone remain calm," the Professor urged. "I happen to know a little something about scouting and survival, no one is going to die!
"Quiet!" the Skipper bellowed. He was loud enough to silence them, and when they looked back at him, he resolved to be a good leader. "Now, there have been some technical issues with our equipment, but the marina knows we never docked and it knows the route we were traveling. There's no way they won't send rescue planes out to comb for our wreck and any survivors. We're not going to die here."
Already, the castaways seemed to relax.
"That said," Skipper continued, his tone a bit more stern, "we don't know how long it will be until the rescue party finds us. We all need to work together and work hard to make sure we'll be okay until they do."
"Dear God," Mr. Howell gasped. "Work? Hard? You can't honestly expect a Howell to—"
"Quiet, Howell," Skipper barked. "You're under my jurisdiction now, and I say we all contribute equally so we all get through this together. Every one of us. As of now, we're a team and we all work together. Got it?"
"Captain," Mrs. Howell cut in, "you can't honestly expect—"
"He said we don't wanna hear it, Howell," Gilligan barked in his best impression of his Skipper, chest out and voice deep.
"That's right, little buddy." Skipper gave a nod. "Now I suggest our first order of business is finding any resources we might need in case we're stuck here for a matter of days."
"Days?" Mary Ann gasped.
Skipper continued. "These huts might have leftover nonperishables, blankets, or tools. We need to get inside of them. Also, we're going to want to build a signal fire and keep it burning until the rescue plane spots it. Any questions?"
The castaways looked cross, but didn't argue.
"Good," Skipper said gruffly. "Now, I am putting the first mate, Gilligan, in charge of getting inside these locked huts. I'll brave the wilderness to scour the jungle for food and resources. I'll also go back to the shipwreck to recover all our emergency supplies, including the desalination device onboard. We won't be short on freshwater."
"I can get the fire going," Professor offered.
"Good. Make it big and keep it burning at all times." Skipper gestured to the center of the clearing in front of the huts. "Building it here will work just fine, that way you don't have to stray too far. Got it?"
Professor nodded.
"Those are the big jobs that we need done right now. Everyone needs to help out with something." Before the castaways could argue, Skipper gestured that he was finished and commanded the castaways to get to work. When the castaways disbanded they were slow, hesitant, but there was no backtalk. Skipper figured if he could keep them in line until they were rescued, they would all live. Some of the guilt that he had gotten them shipwrecked subsided from the fact that he seemed to be an acceptable leader. He had gotten them into this mess, and he would see them through it. He refused to let them down.
/
Mr. Howell stood crossly. His wife had jumped at the chance to "help" the captain to open the huts. In reality, she was simply standing in the shade of one of the sturdy wooden huts and examining the door. Just standing there. In the shade, no less! Mr. Howell felt a pang of jealousy; he wanted nothing more than to get back to his days of doing nothing real.
And yet, he was required to contribute. Apparently.
A glace around the sunny tropical clearing told him that the quaint little farmgirl was following around that brainy fellow who was gathering materials to build a fire. Ginger Grant had joined his wife and the first mate in staring uselessly at the huts. Howell was not going to jump at the chance to join either party; the two collecting firewood seemed beyond insufferable, and he had no desire to interact with Ginger Grant or his own wife after what had he'd initiated on the wrecked boat earlier.
"Captain!" Howell waved a hand at the captain, who was brushing himself off and about to head back into the jungle.
"Howell," the captain regarded him evenly.
"Listen, I don't want to get in the way of all your communist, hardworking ideals, but it looks to me as though both the jobs you said we need to get done are reasonably manned, and since I—"
"You need to contribute somehow, Howell," the captain said without a trace of sympathy. Being treated like anyone else made Howell flinch.
"You've got to understand, Captain, see everything looks under control and I really don't think I would be much of a help to either that egghead or your skinny little second in command, so…" Howell trailed off, hoping that the captain would take the hint and allow Howell to simply sit back and enjoy the tropical island. Perhaps he could stroll down to the water, get his feet wet…
"I couldn't agree more." At that, Mr. Howell smiled, satisfied that the captain was finally seeing reason. But the Skipper kept talking: "The jungle is vast and we learned the hard way that it might be pretty dangerous." He folded his arms. "Not to mention the fact that on top of the emergency bag, I'll need help carrying anything we find. I think there are at least three passenger bags on ship. Including yours and your wife's. I could use you along."
"Well, that's not exactly—" The captain kept walking, and Howell swiveled his head to follow the determined seaman.
"Listen, Howell," the captain started without looking back, "you can either help out somehow or take your chances as a loner. No man is an island—"
"That's hardly an appropriate metaphor, considering."
The captain didn't stop, and Howell realized that he was serious. He contemplated his options for a moment; on one hand, he had never been in a truly dangerous situation in his life. His definition of "grueling" was a long day of golf or an entire week in and out of board meetings with weary investors, and that was a rarity. He had never imagined that Thurston Howell III would have to trek across an island in the blistering sun, searching for food and water like a wild animal.
The rest of the castaways probably hadn't pictured spending their week this way, either. (Except perhaps that little farmgirl—he wasn't entirely sure what life was like anywhere rural.) Still, he couldn't get over the fact that he was getting treated pretty much exactly like the others. Howell couldn't remember the last time he had been treated exactly like anyone else in the room; even people who claimed to be undaunted by his excess of money and fame acted off when speaking to him. Cautious, hungry.
The captain didn't seem to give a damn that he was Thurston Howell III. Whether that was because of the captain's own persona or the extraordinary circumstances, Howell didn't know. Regardless, it seemed all he saw was another body capable of work. Begrudgingly, he followed after the captain, though not without considering faking getting sick or injured. How easily he could act as though he'd sprained his ankle, or contracted some sort of jungle fever… Then he could sit in the shade all day, drinking from a coconut, and the rest of the crew would be forced to take care of him…
Abd yet, despite how easy it would be to fake a fall or a fainting spell, he was pushing after the captain.
Wide, impossibly green leaves smacked Howell in the face and thorny branches tore at his bare arms. Shortly after beginning the journey, Howell was swimming in his own sweat, and the lack of water supplies meant that his mouth was as dry as the sand underfoot. He could not remember a time he'd been this uncomfortable. A few more hours of this, and he would have to pretend to be sick or injured.
He couldn't remember how long it took to make it from the camp to the shipwreck, but he was fairly certain it wasn't a short jaunt. Every minute dragged on, felt like hours. Howell couldn't be sure, but it felt as though the skin on his face was blistering and half his body was succumbing to cramps.
If Howell had to live like this until they were rescued, he prayed inwardly that either their rescue or his own death be swift.
/
For a long time, the only sound between the two men was the rustling of the underbrush and the sifting of sand. Skipper spared only the occasional glace back at the millionaire; he was caught inside his own head, reliving the wreck. He analyzed every moment of the trip: from the ship leaving the marina to the horrible scrape of the ship running aground.
What had been the first sign of trouble? Couldn't he have seen what was to come, somehow, even if only instinctually? How long had he been sailing the seven seas? He should have known, somehow.
Skipper knew it was all his fault, he was the captain. If anyone died now, it would be on his head.
Skipper was fairly certain they were almost there when Howell stopped in his tracks. Before Skipper could even ask what was the matter, Howell demanded a rest.
Skipper stared ahead, contemplated. They hadn't been walking for too long, but already they were both drenched in sweat and fatigued from the events of the past two days. He wanted to tell the millionaire to suck it up, they were almost there, or else threaten to leave him again, but of course Skipper had no intention of really leaving Howell anywhere on his own. He was in charge; he needed to motivate everyone to contribute if they were all going to survive.
But then, he felt the exhaustion wearing on himself, and he was just happy that Howell had agreed to come along. Nevermind that his pace was too slow and he was demanding a break when they hadn't even reached the Minnow yet: he deserved the break.
So, Skipper nodded and joined Howell, sitting in the shade of a massive palm tree. They were both breathing heavily, and Skipper quickly realized how relieved he was to be taking a rest, despite how much he wanted to press forward.
Respite allowed him to listen to how desperately his legs hurt; how his body was drenched in sweat; and how, despite the short and uneasy sleep he'd gotten in the cool shaded sand the night before, he was completely exhausted. His hat suddenly felt heavy, so he removed the gold-emblemed captain's hat and rubbed the sweat from his brow. He longed for a cool shower, but he didn't dare guess how long it would be before he had access to such a luxury again.
"You're in better shape than you look," Mr. Howell commented.
Skipper was fairly certain this was a remark regarding his weight, so he responded with a halfhearted utterance.
This did not deter the Howell. "Truly, why do we have to walk so fast? We're trapped on a desert island, it's not like we're pressed for time here..." Skipper again neglected to provide a real response, but Howell continued talking. Skipper just wanted to catch his breath and quietly scrutinize the whole situation. Clearly the millionaire was rarely around people who refused to hang on his every word. "…Unless of course, you're training for the Desolate Pacific Island Marathon," he mused, "in which case, you've got a long way to go… An arduous journey in front of you. You'll be wanted to trim a few pounds, Captain."
"I get it, Howell," Skipper said without sparing a glance. He was staring out to sea, wondering whether civilized islands or populated ships were nearby.
Howell followed his glance and had an entirely different thought: "Care to go for a dip?"
The thought was sorely tempting, but… "We've gotta keep moving."
"We'll be no use to the others if we drop dead from heatstroke, Captain."
Skipper stood up anyway, afraid that if he entertained the thought any longer, he'd never find the motivation to make it to the Minnow and back. "Tell you what," he said anyway, because the millionaire did have a good point, "we'll cool off once we reach the ship."
/
Gilligan was getting nowhere with the huts.
He'd tried working with the women—teamwork makes the dream work!—but to no avail. He tried first to think of what the Skipper would do. The Skipper, Gilligan had figured, might be strong enough to break the doors down.
But even between Gilligan, Ginger Grant, and Mrs. Howell, they couldn't muster the strength to so much as budge a single hut door.
So now, Gilligan was using his head. That's what Skipper would've told him, he decided. First, he and the women tried to pick the lock with twigs, but they'd been too brittle and one by one, their twigs snapped. When the women retreated, he'd borrowed some leftover rocks and a large stick from the Professor and the girl called Mary Ann, who'd been building the signal fire. With these materials, he resolved to build an axe.
By now, the signal fire was roaring, and so the Professor and the farmgirl were sitting in the shade with Ginger Grant and Mrs. Howell, who had given up hope on the huts. Even though Gilligan was still giving it his all, he couldn't blame them. His back was sore from working the materials, and even though he was already sitting in the cool of the shade, he longed to be sitting with somebody. If he was going to spend the next few days with these people, he wanted to get to know them.
He thought back to high school; he'd graduated only two years prior and had been working full-time at the marina ever since. For the most part, he didn't miss school—too much homework, not enough time for lunch… not to mention the classes he'd failed. And yet, he did sometimes miss the closeness and certainty that came from getting to see the same people every day. Unfailingly every year, on the first day of school, the fun teachers would insist that the students play icebreaker games to get to know each other. Most of the students groaned, but Gilligan used to adore the utter frivolousness, and he always learned something about his classmates.
He was tempted to leave the huts, wait until the Skipper retuned to worry at all about it. What he wanted to do was join the others, to learn about each one of them.
But, he thought as he tried for the six hundredth time to fasten the bluntly-sharpened rock to a lumpy stick, he'd been given a job to do, and he would see it through to the end.
He was still hard at work when one of the castaways got out up and approached him.
It was the little farmgirl: Mary Ann, Gilligan remembered. Even sunburned and unkempt from the past two days, she looked cute. Natural beauty, as Gilligan's mother would've said. Her black pigtails, which had been shiny, curly, and bouncy when the S.S. Minnow took off, were now limp and ragged. Still, there was light in her eyes, and with both hands clasped patiently behind her back, she was the picture of innocence.
"Hi. Gilligan, right?"
Gilligan nodded, setting down his work-in-progress to give her his full attention. "That's me! And you're Mary Ann."
Mary Ann nodded back. "Listen, Gilligan, we're all awful hungry and tired, but Roy, uh, the professor, got the fire going real quick, and so I don't mind a little extra work if there might be supplies we can share in there."
Gilligan glanced down at the stick and stone he'd been working with. In truth, he realized, that was all he had, a stick and a stone. The stick was uneven, branchy, and would never make a decent hilt. The rock he'd chosen was sharp for a rock, but not for the head of an axe. And the vine he'd gotten his hands on was too short to ever keep the two together. "You don't know how to make an axe, do you, Mary Ann?"
Mary Ann shook her head. "Well, I was raised on a farm. Back in Kansas, we sometimes had to get creative, but I've never fashioned a functional axe."
Gilligan sank. "I wonder when the Skipper will get back…"
Mary Ann laid one hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "Well," she said slowly, "the Professor did mention one idea. He said if we couldn't figure out how to get the doors open, we could try burning them down."
"Burning them down?" Gilligan repeated, gobsmacked.
"Well, he seemed to think we could control the burning somehow."
Gilligan shuddered to think what would happen if he tried controlling a burning building, but he didn't want to admit that sometimes his methods went astray, so he asked if Mary Ann had any other ideas.
She put one hand on her chin, thinking for a moment. "Did you try picking the locks?"
Gilligan nodded, proud that he'd already thought of that. "I did. Nothing good to pick them with. Just twigs."
"Hmm... Mrs. Howell and Ginger Grant didn't have an bobby pins?"
"Nope."
"I don't have any, either," Mary Ann said dejectedly. "But maybe…" She glanced toward the jungle, a concerned look on her face. "I don't know if it's safe to go back into the jungle, but…"
Gilligan remembered with dread the swift and powerful attackers he and Skipper had faced earlier. He really didn't want to run into them again, but he did want to know what Mary Ann was thinking. "What?"
"If we could find any small animal bones… Those can be slender and sturdy."
"You want to pick the lock with bones?"
"Have you got a better idea?"
Gilligan was silent for a moment, thinking. He did so badly want to eat… If the huts were stocked with canned foods, he would be willing to risk almost anything. He thought of sweet peaches, oranges, beans… Anything edible would make venturing into the jungle worth it. He realized then how quickly his thoughts were being derailed with imagery of food, and he realized that neither he nor the others could likely carry on without eating for much longer.
If Skipper could cut through the jungle to get to the wreck of the Minnow, Gilligan decided, he could brave the wilderness to get his job done, too.
"Okay," Gilligan whispered, gathering his courage. "Let's go."
/
The shipwreck was a welcome sight. The destruction across the Minnow's starboard side filled the sea captain with sorrow. It was a harrowing reminder of his failure, and yet Skipper knew that the ship was chock-full of much-needed supplies.
Not to mention the deal he'd struck with Mr. Howell.
The millionaire wasted no time in rushing to the sea.
It was childlike even before he shouted, "Last one in gets eaten by an alligator!"
"I'm going to check what we can salvage on board first," Skipper hollered.
"Your loss."
Skipper took a deep breath before reentering the ship. That first night had been beyond frightening—no idea where they were, if the second would bring their doom…
When he stepped on the ship, for a moment, he was there again, in the absolute darkness with the terrified passengers, all of them listening with dread to those howls…
Skipper shook his head. He had to move forward. Now, the sun was shining bright, the castaways were safe back at camp, and they were about to have an abundance of resources at their disposal.
First he gathered the emergency supply kit, which he'd left on the ship when he and Gilligan left the castaways on board. It was a bulky duffel filled with rain ponchos, an emergency flashlight, a whistle, and a flare gun.
Skipper would keep the flare gun close until the rescue plane came. If that wouldn't get a rescue party's attention, nothing would.
Also in the duffel was the desalination device and an assortment of nonperishables. They wouldn't go hungry any time soon. Still, Skipper thought as he stared longingly at the canned goods, it had entirely too long since they'd eaten, and he resolved to get the food back to camp as quickly as possible.
He hustled as he tracked down the bags the passengers had brought along; there was one little overnight bag, a carry-on-sized suitcase, and two comically large pieces of luggage that Skipper assumed belonged to the Howells.
There was time to join the millionaire in the water for a brief moment because, as he had pointed out earlier, they would accomplish nothing by dropping dead from heatstroke. He would move everything salvageable off the ship, then tell Howell that break time was over.
/
Howell was floating on his back, still fully clothed, despite his unbuttoned shirt. His straw hat was resting on his torso, and his eyes were closed, relaxed. This was exactly what he needed. His weekend was supposed to be one of relaxation and hedonism; none of this hard work bullshit.
At first it had almost been fun, following the captain through the jungle and across the beach. Hard work! Contributing! The captain had made him feel like it was something important, like he was the man everyone else depended on, and it had been interesting and different playing the man who gets stuff done…
But soon he was covered in perspiration, which Howell was only familiar with in other contexts. And how his legs cramped! And the captain moved so fast!
He was glad to be at the shipwreck. He would have liked to have the movie star's company there, to help him relax. Strangely, he also wasn't opposed to sitting down with his wife and sharing an afternoon, as long as she didn't scold him too much… Nevertheless, he would be content just floating in the water until they got back to camp.
He groaned inwardly at the notion of having to return back to camp; he'd done more than enough hard work for the day, so he sank down deeper into his meditative state.
Which was when the captain declared, "Alright, Howell, let's move out."
Mr. Howell opened one eye. "You can't be serious, Captain."
"It's time to move, come on. We'll split up the bags and head back to camp, alright."
"We've been here for less than ten minutes."
The captain shook his head. "It's been long enough, now come on." When Howell refused to obey, the captain swung one massive arm against the water, covering Howell in a brutal splash.
He sputtered, lost his balance, and then maneuvered himself upright to face the offending captain. "Careful, sailor, I could have you arrested for assault."
The captain just scoffed. "You don't seem to get it." There was that tone again; that no-nonsense voice he'd endured more times in the past few hours than in the past thirty years of his life.
"No," Howell interjected. "You don't seem to understand who it is you're dealing with. I am Thurston Howell the Third! I make more money in a single afternoon than you'll see in your sad little life. Men worship and fear me! Pushing me around is about the stupidest thing anybody could do."
"Howell." He could see that the captain was trying to speak calmly, rationally, despite his temper. "This isn't Manhattan or Boston. Neither I nor the elements we're facing are intimidated or influenced by your wealth. The fact is that we need to get these bags back to camp. They've got valuable supplies—"
"Oh, don't talk to me about valuable!"
"Howell. When we get back to the mainland, everything will go back to normal. You can get right back to—"
Howell laughed mirthlessly. "Oh," he pointed one finger into the captain's chest, "you'd better hope we never get back to the mainland, because when we do, I will sue your ass so hard, you won't—"
"It's my job to get you five back no matter what, understand? I am just trying to make sure we all survive this. You can do whatever you want when we get back. I don't care." A brief silence, the sound of the ocean and the rustle of palm leaves. Then, "I mean really, think about your wife. She's back at the camp, she's trapped in this mess, too. Don't you want to bring these essentials back to her? Don't you want to make sure she's safe and unafraid?"
There it was again, that nasty call to duty, asking Howell to be some kind of hero, to do that vulgar hard work not just for himself, but for others.
"Don't you want to take her back to Hawaii so you can hold her in your arms and know your both safe? That might never happen if we don't get everything we need back to camp, and fast."
There was something so sincere, so longing in the sea captain's voice. It made his annoying sentiment almost impossible to ignore…
Had he and his wife ever been happy together? The image of her as a young bride came to his mind almost unwillingly. She had been radiant, and they were ever so young. The whole thing had mostly been set up by their parents—it was a business dealing, the Howell-Wentworth merger—and for the most part, he had only been excited about the professional prospects. Expanding the empire meant more money, and that was all that mattered. He hadn't even considered the woman he was marrying until they were standing at the exquisite altar.
The excitement had waned, of course, as Howell was told romances always do, but… Mr. Howell allowed himself to entertain, for just a moment, of the possibility of taking Lovey Howell back to the mainland as his wife, really his wife…
Before Howell could finish the thought, something yanked him by the leg, backwards, into the water.
His face hit the water with incredible force. Salt stung his still-open eyes, and whatever had taken hold of his leg was relentless. He kicked as hard as he could, despite the pain from the walk, the pain from being grabbed, the pain that seemed to come out of fear itself.
He thrashed for everything his life was worth—which was a great deal, to say the least—and felt himself break free.
He surfaced, swallowed a dramatic breath, and swam, hard, toward the captain who was shouting for him at the shore. He'd been dragged impossibly far out to sea—several feet—in just seconds.
He didn't have time to ponder why or how before something wrapped around his other leg and pulled.
The captain vanished as Howell felt himself go under, go deeper…
His vision was obscured by frantic bubbles as he thrashed again and twisted desperately, trying to catch a glimpse of his assailant.
It was hopeless, of course; the world was a blur. The world was rendered entirely incomprehensible by the breath hemorrhaging from his muffled scream, the panic, the pain… And, Howell realized, his world was growing darker… darker…
The realization that he was being dragged down made Howell panicked anew, and, with a fresh surge of energy, he kicked again. It was enough to escape and propel him closer to the surface, closer…
He lost another mouthful of air, and the bubbles told him which way to swim.
He kicked, hard, was staring at the light of the sun above the waves…
He wasn't going to make it, he realized with unimaginable dread. As the horror sank in, an impossible darkness descended into his vision. He tried to gasp, but instead inhaled water.
Was he swimming up or down?
A vicious cough forced its way out and backfired when he sucked in another lungful of water.
He thought of the surface, the captain waiting for him. The rest of the castaways at camp. The life he'd unknowingly left behind when he boarded the Minnow.
His wife.
And then all he could think was how much it hurt. It hurt, it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt—
Until he couldn't feel anything anymore.
/
"What was that?" Gilligan whirled. He was wielding a branch like a sword, telling himself he would protect Mary Ann if he had to.
Protect Mary Ann. Find something to pick the lock with. Recover anything in those huts that might be useful.
"Gilligan, it's only your imagination." Mary Ann didn't seem too sure, even before she added. "Come on, we better keep moving."
They would find what they needed.
"Hey," Gilligan started, "I… I really appreciate having you along and everything, Mary Ann, but… why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you following me into these creepy old woods?"
"Oh." Mary Ann sounded sad, and Gilligan wondered if he should've kept his mouth shut. "I guess… I don't have a corner on every market in the country and I wasn't famous as a child and I didn't even graduate college, much less get a PhD… I guess I'm a little out of my league with the other passengers."
"Didn't you come here with the Professor?" Gilligan remembered that they might have even been dating when they boarded the ship, and that they might not be anymore. He didn't want to bring up any sore subjects, but he wanted to know if there was any way he could help her.
"Yeah. But I think… I don't want to talk about it."
"You don't have to," Gilligan said tamely.
They trudged on in silence for a few more minutes, eyes on the ground, until Gilligan heard a rustling in the leaves again. His gaze jolted upward, expecting the attackers from the night before, but instead, his eyes met those of a deer.
All three.
Staring back at Gilligan was a deer, slender and graceful, with grandiose antlers. But Gilligan, of course, wasn't looking at the dark antlers. He was transfixed by its eyes: two deep brown doe eyes, right where they should be, and one wide white eye along its forehead. Was it glowing?
Gilligan tried to alert Mary Ann, but his words weren't working. She was walking away, though, getting farther and farther…
"Mary—" he managed to choke out.
"Gilligan!" Mary Ann hollered before he could finish. The deer's ears pricked up and it pranced off to disappear into the trees. "I think I found something!"
/
The darkness was soft. Soft and comfortable, like the moment before sleep, or…
Howell was ripped from the dark with a start. The captain was pushing on his chest, hard, and he could feel water spilling out from his mouth.
The pain came back then, tearing at his lungs and his every limb.
And the captain was shouting.
"Howell! Howell, can you hear me? What happened?"
"That is the question," he managed to mumble in response.
"One second you were just standing there, and the next you're being dragged out to sea!"
"That's right…" Howell remembered. The memory was cold and unfamiliar; he had never had a bad trip, but he imagined it would feel something like this. Just recalling the events brought the dread and fear back in full force. "I… Something grabbed me. Something in the water…"
"A shark? Alligator?" The captain's voice was hurried, panicked, and he seemed to be looking for something. "Doesn't look like you were bit anywhere. They'd make you bleed something awful."
"I don't…" Shark? Alligator? Bleed!? "I… I almost died!" Howell cried. "I almost died!"
"Thank God you're alright," the captain muttered. "I'd have never forgiven myself…" Then, "Can you move? Can you walk?"
His breathing was still strained, heavy, but Howell managed to pull himself to his feet. He was trying to wrap his head around the entire concept of death. All he could figure was that he wanted to stop thinking about it. Immediately. "I can walk. Let's get back to camp."
"Are you okay to make the walk?" The captain's voice was still stern, in charge, but he was concerned, genuinely, Howell could tell.
"I could run, easily, if it gets me out of here."
The captain looked sideways at Howell, like maybe he wanted to say something, and the millionaire wondered if he was feeling smug after all that talk about survival and equality. Finally, the captain gathered the bags they'd have to lug and guided the way.
The walk back was less physically painful than the way back, adrenaline still numbing Howell's muscles, but he couldn't stop reliving what had happened under the water. The whole ordeal was on repeat in his mind, and Howell was suddenly aware of just how drastic the situation was: the captain had been right, the island didn't care what or who Howell owned.
If they weren't careful, every one of them could end up in the ground.
(Not even some kind of fancy mausoleum… the thought was beyond dreadful.)
"You're a strong man, Howell," the captain said eventually, pulling the millionaire out of his grim thoughts.
"What?"
"I think most would have drowned. You were down there for a long time. And now look, you're carrying those cases like they're nothing." True, Howell barely noticed the weight of the briefcases, even the one he'd had packed with everything a Howell could possibly need. "We're lucky to have you along, you've got real survival skills when you use them."
Whether the captain was just being nice or if he was sincere, Howell couldn't tell, but he didn't refute.
"Anyway," the captain continued uncertainly, "I don't know what it was like for you all on the mainland, but, uh, well, here, you and your wife are going to have to look out for each other. Your all you've got, you know?"
"Not all," Howell quipped, gesturing to the suitcase he was lugging. He tried to laugh off the comment, and even though it bothered him, he knew now that the captain was probably right. "What do you know about it anyway?"
"I've got a wife, back in the States."
"Yeah?"
"We're not on great terms. I don't see her very much and, well, uh, I just miss the little things."
"The little things?"
"The way she took her coffee. The sound of her laugh," the captain's voice was awkward, uncertain. Howell thought he might be embarrassed talking about her, but he wasn't partial to talking about his marriage, either, and it helped that they were walking ever-onward, not looking each other in the eye.
"What… happened to her?" he asked hesitantly. "Or, to you, or…"
The sea captain didn't answer.
What were Lovey's little things? Memories of the incident at the wreck were replaced with his great effort to remember everything he knew about her.
Which wasn't much.