A/N: "Hahaha, yes, yes this is still a parody!" I say about the 80 pages and 30k words of still incomplete Gilligan's Island fanfiction I've written. "Don't worry, it's still TOTALLY a parody! I'm doing this IRONICALLY!"
Here is how it would work:
They would keep the rescue fire roaring all night. The Skipper had spent the week chopping wood whenever he could, with the help of Captain Feldman's axe, so there was plenty of it to feed. When the rescue plane flew overhead, it would still be roaring, and they would be waiting for their rescuers. If they spotted a ship, the S.S. Minnow's flare gun was waiting in the Skipper and Gilligan's hut. By the end of the day, they would be safe and alive, rejoined with the rest of the world on the mainland.
The Skipper and Gilligan slept in anxious shifts to ensure the rescue fire didn't go out. While everyone else tried, fruitlessly, to sleep, they fed the fire and fiddled with the transmitter, trying to cover yet another base, thinking maybe it could help them contact any planes overhead. The Professor had never gotten to the bottom of how they could receive radio waves but not transmit, though he had examined it himself late at night alone in his hut.
"Everyone should make sure their stuff is packed up," the Skipper told them that morning, their little group huddled around the rescue fire on the beach and eating breakfast. The Howells had a couple of bags, the sailors their emergency equipment, and the Professor had been browsing the old sea captain's manuscripts. Even all together, there wasn't much to bring home.
"Last day," Mr. Howell said to his wife, the two of them taking a break from packing their bags.
She smiled and nodded. A real smile—he could tell she was excited to get home. He wondered when he would see her after this, wondered what he would do what they got home. Would she just go back to their house in New York, hosting parties and charity events? Would he go back to… whatever it was he did?
He had no idea. He didn't even know how to kill the rest of the day. The Captain hadn't tasked them with anything to do to help the rescue along—either he didn't trust them to help, or there was too little to be done. He almost wanted something to do—almost—just to kill the anticipation. But, then again, doing work required doing work, so he made himself at home again on one of the outdoor cots and relaxed. His wife followed suit.
The Howells were laid back, eyes closed as the Skipper and Gilligan went to work.
"I'll keep an eye on the flames, Gilligan," the Skipper said. "You check in on the rest of the castaways, see if they're all ready to go. We don't know when this plane is coming."
Gilligan nodded seriously, trying to keep his head straight, trying to keep from messing anything up. The Howells were relaxing on the beach, but the girls and the Professor were up in the huts in the jungle, so he stopped by the Howells first to make sure they were ready.
"Well, as a matter of fact, we're not quite packed up yet," Mr. Howell answered without even opening his eyes. "Still have to pack up our bags, you know. Left some clothes around the hut. There's a rather handsome tip in it for you if you go back up there and pack the rest of our stuff for us."
Gilligan saluted. "Yes, sir!" It was his job to help the castaways, however he could, so he rushed up the wooden steps into the jungle toward the Howell hut. He packed their stuff with great care; the last thing he wanted was to wrinkle their billion-dollar pants or something.
When the job was done, he emerged from the hut, thinking it was time to track down the other castaways and see if they needed anything done before they left. Time was probably short now, he thought excitedly.
A rustling of leaves jolted Gilligan out of his thoughts. He turned toward the trees, expecting to see the Professor inspecting the trees or the bugs. But instead of the familiar scientist, Gilligan saw a striking silhouette, four-legged with tangled antlers reaching toward the sky.
And when he stared, that third moonlight-white eye stared back at him.
For a moment, they just stood there like that, watching each other.
"Professor," Gilligan whispered, hoping he would somehow miraculously hear and see that the mystical creature was real after all. "Skipper… Mary Ann, Mr. Howell, Mrs. Howell, Ginger… Anyone, come quick. Come qu—"
With another rustle, the deer turned and started to walk off into the trees again.
"No!" Gilligan whispered. "No, stay! I want to show you to my friends…" As the deer disappeared into the jungle, Gilligan panicked. In a few hours, he and his friends would be miles from this strange place, and they'd never believe his stories about the giant black three-eyed deer… He fidgeted, considered his options, and then remembered the heavy old flintlock Captain Feldman and left in their hut.
As a principle, Gilligan was against the killing of animals, hunting for sport. But he knew that this was his last chance, and if even the Professor hadn't believed that the deer was real, proving its existence could be a valuable contribution to science.
What if, when they got home, he could tell his family about how he helped his friends get off the island and about how he discovered a whole new species? Would they name it after him? Gilligan's Great Buck? The Antlered Gilligan? The Glowing Gilligan? He was trying to think of names when he burst into his hut, searching for the flintlock. His mind was made up. He grabbed the gun off the old Captain's table. He was going to come back to the mainland a revered explorer-slash-biologist.
As he trekked through the jungle, following the deer's fresh tracks, he imagined the look on everyone's faces when he brought the buck back.
/
An hour had passed before Skipper realized that he hadn't seen his little buddy in a while.
"Howell," he barked.
Mr. Howell removed his sunglasses and peered over, only half-interested.
"Have you seen Gilligan?"
"Yes, yes. He went up to the hut to pack away the last of our clothes."
"Why?"
"Because we're too comfortable," Mrs. Howell answered.
The Skipper rolled his eyes. "Well, track him down. And tell him to bring the flare gun. I want it here in case we see a ship."
There was a moment of silence as the Howells considered whether it was worth getting up for.
"Go!" the Skipper demanded, making Mr. Howell jump.
In a moment, they were scrambling up the steps, so the Skipper went back to watching the fire. Everything had to be perfect. The Minnow had been blown so far off course by that brutal old storm that they were just on the outside edge of the search party's generous radius. They might only make the one pass. They might not get another chance to be spotted. He would not fail this rescue attempt.
/
The fire was really roaring, a tall and impressive feat, when the Howells came rushing back. The Professor, Ginger, and Mary Ann were behind him. And they all had worried looks on their faces. Skipper's gut twisted.
Something was wrong.
"What's going on?" he asked before they got to him.
"Gilligan seems to have vanished," the Professor told him.
"We have no idea where he went," Mary Ann said frantically.
"He's not in any of the huts?"
They shook their heads.
"We checked them all," Ginger said.
The Skipper considered his options. "Okay," he said finally. "If he's not on the beach or up by the huts, he must be in the jungle." He knew there were all kinds of wild animals in there, and it was big enough that they could get lost. He wasn't going to ask any of the castaways to brave the jungle. He would go it alone. "First, go up to my hut and find the flare gun. Bring it down as a backup. Everyone else, make sure the fire doesn't go out and keep a close eye on the sky and the horizon. Keep the fire high. We want it to be unmissable. If you see anyone, fire the flare gun, too. And when you meet them, tell them to search the jungle for us. I'm going to find Gilligan."
Everyone stared at him blankly. And then Mary Ann said, "You're going to go alone?"
"I can handle it." The Skipper looked at the sky, guessed it was about three o'clock. "I'll be back before it starts getting dark," he said, although he had no way to be sure.
And with that, he left the castaways alone on the beach, praying to the old gods that they wouldn't get scared or stumble into danger or somehow mess up all his careful planning.
Ginger and Mary Ann went up to retrieve the flare gun, which they found in the Skipper and Gilligan's hut after some searching. The Professor was approximating how much wood they would need to keep the fire burning at its current strength until the Skipper got back and decided he had left them more than enough wood. The Howells were generally uninterested in helping, which was fine because there wasn't much to be done.
"Just listen to the radio," the Professor said, turning it up so that they could all hear the rescue updates.
They all waited uneasily, time slowing to a crawl again.
"This is the longest day of my life," Ginger said.
"I hope Gilligan is okay," Mary Ann worried out load.
"I don't think he can handle himself out there in the jungle," Ginger said dryly.
Mary Ann twisted herself frantically. "No," she said. "No, he'll be fine. Right, Professor?"
"I'm sure they'll be back soon," the Professor said, though he sounded unconvinced. "Hand me some more wood for the fire."
They kept themselves busy as best as they could, although there wasn't much to be done. They tried to focus on the fire, the radio report, tensely, despite thinking about Gilligan and the Skipper.
Eventually, unbearably, the sun started to duck under the waves.
"They're still not back," Mary Ann said tearfully.
Even the Howells were sitting up, concerned. Nobody said anything for a while, afraid to think of what might have happened to their crew. Everyone stared toward the woods, waiting for something.
"The wild animals come out at night," Ginger said eventually. Even she realized the gravity of the situation.
"Dear lord," Mrs. Howell said. "Our crew will be eaten alive!"
Mary Ann cried out, and the Professor steeled himself for the task ahead. "I have to go in after them," he said. "They might be lost, so we need to get them out as quickly as possible."
"What makes you think you won't just lost, too?" Mr. Howell asked.
"And eaten," Ginger added.
"I'll do it smarter," Professor said. He bent down to grab the tackle box that sat next to the cots. After some digging, he pulled out a large spool of fishing wire and started tying it to the cot. "I'll hold onto this, and when I find them, we'll just follow the thread it will lead us back."
"What about wild animals?" Mary Ann fretted. "Oh, I don't think you should go it alone." She hesitated, then stepped forward. "I'll go with you."
The Professor shook his head. "I couldn't ask you to do that."
"I could come, too," Ginger offered.
"Well, count us out," Mrs. Howell declared with a wave of the hand.
The Professor thought for a moment, then spoke. "Alright, alright. I think we should have three people looking after the fire." The truth was that it was a one-person job, but the Howells were not the people for it. "One of you girls can come with me, one should stay and watch the fire."
"I'll go," Mary Ann said, and Ginger didn't argue.
/
Gilligan was unaware of the Skipper and the rest trekking after him, barely aware of the fact that the island was now almost completely dark, when he caught up with the buck. Deep in the jungle, antlered head ducked, drinking from a stream, completely unsuspecting.
He thought for a moment about whether he really wanted to do this, but he was tired and worn out from the chase, and time was running thin. If he wanted to get back to his friends in time and make a contribution to science, the time to act was now. He muttered an apology to the buck and took aim.
What followed was a spectacular display of light and sound.
Instead of a bullet, a screaming, sparkling stream of light exploded from the gun and went streaking forward, missing the buck entirely.
Gilligan fell backwards as the buck hopped off into the jungle, leaving him staring, dumbfounded, and the leaves around him sizzling.
At first, he thought it was some kind of magic. That the gun had malfunctioned because of the buck's mystical energy. And then he realized that the flintlock he was holding was not a flintlock at all. The barrel was far too short, and a safety orange stripe had been painted around it.
He had grabbed the flare gun.
All his chasing, all his tracking, all the dangers of the jungle waking up around him, and he had been doomed to fail from the start.
/
The shriek of the flare had startled not only Gilligan and the buck. Back on the beach, Ginger and the Howells leapt at the sound.
"What was that?" Ginger whispered.
"Some kind of horrible animal," Mr. Howell guessed.
"We should take cover." Mrs. Howell turned toward the hut, and Ginger nodded.
"What about the fire?" Mr. Howell asked. "We have to keep it—"
Mrs. Howell reached forward, snatched the bottle of vodka Ginger had been cradling, and dumped it into the fire, which burst skyward with a roar.
"Hey!" Ginger cried.
Mr. Howell shrugged. "Yeah, that'll keep it going for a while," he said as they stumbled over each other, rushing toward the Howell hut to shut themselves in.
/
"What was that?" Mary Ann tensed at the nearby sound, and the Professor moved into her to protect her.
"Why, it sounded like a flare gun!" Professor realized after the initial shock had passed. He let her go gently and followed the sound. "Could be Gilligan or the Skipper in trouble!"
Still trailing the fishing line behind them, they rushed toward the sound of the misfired flare.
They spotted his red shirt through the leaves several yards later, still sitting on the ground.
"Gilligan!" Mary Ann cried, rushing toward him to help him up.
"What on earth happened?" the Professor asked him. "Where's the Skipper? And why did you fire that flare gun?"
"I don't know and I don't know and I didn't know!" Gilligan answered.
"Well, why did you go into the woods all by yourself?" Mary Ann asked.
"I saw that deer," Gilligan answered, turning toward the Professor. "I know you think it's not real, but I saw it! It was six feet tall and jet black and had one glowing white eye—"
"Gilligan, tell me you did not risk missing our rescue chasing after a fantasy," the Professor groaned.
"He's not a fantasy, I had him in my sights, so I fired, but I missed, and it's a good thing I did because I wasn't firing bullets at all, I was firing flares!"
The Professor shook his head. "You're clearly all shaken up. Let's find the Skipper and get you some rest. Getting back to the mainland will be good for you."
It didn't take long for the Skipper to find them. He had heard the flare fire, too, and caught up with them in a panic, which calmed to a low rage when he heard what Gilligan had done.
"Gilligan," he growled, smacking the first mate with his hat, "we've been running all over the island looking for you. You don't tell us where you're going, you don't leave a note… You can't do that on an island like this!"
"Oh, the Skipper's right," Mary Ann said. "We were so worried!"
"I'm still worried," the Professor added, looking around them cautiously. Night was almost completely upon them, the darkness slowly swallowing them up and the jungle rattling with life.
And there they were, armed with only the Professor's flashlight between them.
"You're right, Professor," the Skipper said. "We'd better get back to camp."
"Where is camp?" Gilligan asked, dread forming in his stomach.
"Oh, don't worry, the Professor's thought of everything!" Mary Ann said as Professor held up the spool of fishing wire.
"All we have to do is follow the wire back to camp," he said.
It was fast, but not fast enough. They had to wind in circles, double backwards and forwards, all while the jungle rustled around them.
As they retraced the Professor and Mary Ann's steps, everyone grew more uneasy by the minute. Twice, they were swooped by the murder-parrots, throwing their arms up to shield their faces as they ran blindly out of the parrots' territory.
Scratched up and exhausted, everyone tensed when there was a loud rustling of leaves behind them.
"Did anyone else just hear that?" Mary Ann asked, her voice barely a whisper.
The Skipper nodded, although no one could see him now in the dark. "Let's keep moving," he whispered back. "Maybe it will leave us alone."
But as they walked, the rustling followed, everyone too afraid to say anything.
They could not outpace it. It came closer and closer until they froze, and could hear it breathing from the leaves.
An earsplitting howl erupted from just beside them. Everyone jumped, stumbled over themselves, and braced for death.
The beam of the flashlight traced a black blur as it leapt from the trees and pounced on Gilligan.
"Help!" Gilligan screamed. "Help, it's eating me! It's eating my face off, oh, it thinks I'm meat!"
"Little buddy!" Skipper cried out, lunging to help his friend. But when he went to tear the monster off of Gilligan, in the light he realized that it was not a monster at all. "Gilligan," he said calmly.
"No, monster, no, you can't eat my eyeballs!"
"Gilligan."
"Oh, it's a werewolf, Skipper, it's a werewolf and it's going to turn me into one and I'm going to turn into an animal at night and eat all my friends—"
"Gilligan."
"I don't want to eat you, Skipper, get it off of me—"
When Gilligan didn't listen, the Professor spoke up, examining the animal closely. "Gilligan, calm down. That's no monster. Why, it's just canis lupus familiaris."
"Oh, that sounds terrible!" Gilligan cried.
"Well, it just looks like a regular old dog to me," Mary Ann said.
"That's what it is!" the Professor said. "Gilligan, you're merely being greeted by an overly affectionate domestic dog!"
Gilligan stopped, feeling a bit silly. Indeed the horrific maw that he thought had been trying to eat him was smiling, tongue lolling out. "Oh," he said, sitting up. "You weren't licking me because you thought I tasted good." He gave the massive dog a scratch behind the ear. "You were just trying to make friends."
"Yes, that's a nice change of pace," the Skipper remarked, surveying the trees for any more danger about to drop down on them. "But we'd better get moving so we're not late to our own rescue."
"Aw, can we bring him with?" Gilligan asked, straightening up and patting the dog on the head. "I always wanted a dog. So we could play catch and watch TV and I could call him Irving—"
"Not now, Gilligan," the Skipper said. "Let's go."
Gilligan frowned and said his sorry goodbye to the big black dog, but the dog wasn't hearing it. He followed them when they moved on, padded along loyally as the Professor rewired the spool.
"He wants to be my dog, too, see?" Gilligan said, petting the animal's sides as they walked.
"Sure, Gilligan," the Skipper said with a roll of his eyes that Gilligan couldn't see in the dark.
"I'm going to call him Irving and he's going to be—"
He was interrupted by the familiar cry of a murder parrot. "Irving!" the parrot called in a perfect imitation of Gilligan's voice. A flock of shadows swooped then, and everyone covered their faces for the attack.
But Irving let out a terrible bark, charged forward, and snapped at the air, so close he could have grabbed one of the birds by the tail. The birds swooped high again, turning and retreating.
"He's a guard dog!" Mary Ann said with a smile.
"Yes," the Professor said, equally relieved. "Perhaps he'll keep the wild animals at bay until we reach camp again.
"Good dog," the Skipper said approvingly.
But Irving did not seem to stir when a low growl came from the leaves and slowly got louder.
"What is that?" Mary Ann asked, not ready for another wild animal encounter.
"Irving will protect us," Gilligan said as the rumble grew louder.
"He doesn't have to!" the Skipper exclaimed. "Why, that's a plane, that's our rescue!"
Everyone cheered, their paces picked up by the prospect of an imminent rescue.
/
The sound of howling and the rustle of parrots had not inspired the Howells and Ginger to emerge from the safety of the Howell hut. At first, they had stood by the door, staunchly listening, trying to figure out what the whistle of the flare had been and whether or not it would kill them.
And as the sounds of the jungle continued, time seemed to stop. They had no idea how long they'd been in there. They didn't have a flashlight and the huts had no electricity, so they just sat there, in the dark, listening to the fire crackle outside the sounds of all the terrible animals.
Maybe they fell asleep. Or maybe they just sat there, trying not to imagine what was outside.
In any case, they hadn't noticed when the crackling of the fire stopped. They hadn't noticed anything until the airplane was rumbling overhead.
"The plane!" Mrs. Howell said suddenly as they all heard it.
They rushed outside, praying it would see them, but were met with only a dark beach.
"The fire!" Mr. Howell cried.
He and his wife rushed toward it, hoping desperately to reignite it as the blinking lights of the rescue plane came closer and closer.
"The flare!" Ginger remembered. She ran toward the rock where they had set it as the Howells ran through the sand. Suddenly, Mrs. Howell was tripped by an invisible force, and before Mr. Howell could register what was happening, he was, too.
They had failed to remember the fishing line tied to the nearby and went toppling over each other, tangling themselves in each other and the line.
"Get off of me!" Mrs. Howell demanded.
"You get off of me," Mr. Howell retorted, though neither one could untangle their legs from the wire.
While they struggled, Ginger fumbled with the flare. The plane was moving too fast, it would disappear behind the trees soon. She raised the gun above her head and covered one ear as she fired it.
But instead of a brilliant streak of light, the gun gave off a few sparks and went off with a bang.
The Howells panicked and fell over themselves again.
"What was that?" Mr. Howell asked, shaken.
"That's not the flare gun!" Mrs. Howell cried.
Indeed, Ginger was standing there holding the flintlock, which the plane had not seemed to notice.
"Well, then get the fire going!" she yelled, moving to untangle the Howells.
Once they were free, the three of them gathered around the fire. Of course, no one knew how to make a fire with sticks and rocks, but eventually they found the matchbox the Skipper had kept there in case of just such an emergency and fumbled to open it.
"Come on!" Ginger yelled as Mr. Howell struggled to light a match. His hands were shaking hard; he had never known pressure like this. Multiple attempts to strike it, and he hadn't even hit the box.
They couldn't wait any longer. The lights of the plane were vanishing behind the treeline, so Mrs. Howell snatched the matchbox from her husband and got one to light on her third try. She tossed it onto the fire and the little remaining wood lit slowly, too late.
/
The silence that followed was the loudest thing anyone had ever heard. They listened as the rumble of the plane died out, and then they all just sat in ruminative silence and prayed it would make another pass.
Those minutes waiting by the fire felt like the worst of their lives… Until the other four came crashing out of the jungle, faces bright, anticipating a rescue, and all they could do was stare back with forlorn faces.
That was so much worse, for everyone.
There was a lot of yelling while everyone tried to sort out the blame.
"IF GILLIGAN HADN'T GONE RUNNING OFF INTO THE WOODS WITH THE FLARE GUN—" "IF THE HOWELLS AND GINGER COULD HAVE DONE THEIR ONE JOB—" "IF EVERYONE HADN'T GONE AND DISAPPEARED INTO THE WOODS—"
But in the end, when they had nothing left to yell about, they were all left sitting in silence again, staring at the dying fire.
Waiting for a plane that was never going to come back.
A/N: Turns out it's very easy to write a botched Gilligan's Island rescue, you just have to write Gilligan doing ONE THING and then make up a way for that to ruin every possible contingency plan they have in place.