I've been rewatching Gilligan's Island with my family and finally decided to upload this verrry long fic... Haha, updates are still coming! Stay tuned! Also, a shout-out to Shasta627, who brainstormed all of this with me. ;)

Enjoy!

The day the radio broke, the castaways' fate was forever changed.

For better or for worse.

Of course, the day didn't seem any more pivotal than any other day. The Howells were sitting on their beach chairs, chatting about the season's social events that were taking place on the mainland, the crust for one of Mary Ann's famous coconut cream pies was crisping over the campfire, Gilligan and the Skipper were bickering over how to stack firewood, the Professor was reading a book, and the girls were trying to trim each other's hair.

"For the last time, Gilligan, you can't just toss the firewood on a pile, willy-nilly."

"But Skipper, you said to drop it!"

"Dear me, Lovey, I had almost forgotten about the Prince of Monaco's yacht party. Do you think they'll miss us?"

"Of course, darling. Especially the waiters on the yachts. They could make down payments off of your tips, dear."

"I think your hair looks nice, Ginger. Who's next?"

"Well, we already trimmed the Skipper's hair. Um, Professor? Would you like a haircut?"

"Thank you, Ginger, but I'll pass. I'm quite capable of trimming my own hair."

"Oh, but it would be fun!"

"No thank you."

"Spoilsport."

"Gilligan! Watch where you're going with those—!"

There was a crash as Gilligan dropped his stack of firewood onto the table, burying several plates, forks, and unfortunately, the radio.

"Whoops! Sorry Skipper." Gilligan jumped several inches into the air and raced toward the mess.

The Skipper set down his own pile of wood and gave a longsuffering sigh. Someday Gilligan would grow up….

Someday.

The haphazard first mate began unearthing the tables' contents. "Look, Skipper. I didn't even break the dishes!"

"Congrats, Gilligan. Now would you get over here and help me finish stacking this!"

"Sure thing, Skipper." Gilligan gave a small salute and was just about to take his logs back to the pile when he noticed the radio. He did a doubletake. The entire top half of the device was bashed in, looking like someone had used it for batting practice. Hairline cracks disrupted the speakers and one of the dials had completely fallen off. Gilligan yelped, then mournfully picked up the cracked radio.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no." He sounded like he'd killed his pet.

"Gilligan! What is it now?!"

"Oh, Skipper…"

Gilligan wasn't sure how to break the news. He'd really messed up this time. Everyone listened to the radio. Everyday. For the past four years, it had been their one connection to life on the mainland—to their loved ones, their normal lives, and even their hope of rescue.

Cradling the chipped plastic, Gilligan turned to show Skipper the horrifying sight.

The Skipper also did a double take. "Gilligan, did—? GILLIGAN! THE RADIO!"

"Oh, Skipper, I'm so sorry. My firewood must have landed on it, I…I…"

The Skipper dropped his own stack of logs, not even noticing the pain as one rolled onto his foot. "Professor! Professor, get over here!"

There was the sound of a book closing as the Professor responded to the summons, racing over. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I—" Gilligan was twisting his hat, his eyes addressing the ground. Skipper, on the other hand, looked like the perfect cross between terrified and furious.

"Is that…the radio?" The Professor took in the scene with an unhealthy amount of concern. The radio's internal pieces had already been replaced so many times it was ridiculous. The radio had been tossed, kicked, even swallowed by a fish, but he had always been able to fix it. This time though…the Professor didn't know if that was possible.

"Here, let me see it." He kept his voice even as Gilligan handed him the wreck.

Curious about the commotion, Mary Ann, Ginger, and the Howells arrived on site as well.

"What's all this racket? We're on a deserted island for Pete's sake! Can't a man get an afternoon's peace and quiet?" asked Mr. Howell, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leisure suitcoat.

"Gilligan?" said Mary Ann, sounding a degree more concerned. "What's wrong? You don't look so well."

"Oh my!" Ginger gasped dramatically as she noticed the mangled device the Professor was attempting to examine. "Please tell me that's not the radio!"

"I'm afraid it is." The Skipper took his hat off and held it over his heart, saying goodbye to a loved one, apparently. "Gilligan dropped the firewood on it. The top was bashed in."

"But the Professor can fix it, right?" asked Mrs. Howell. "How else am I going to keep up with the Queen's springtime tea and garden parties?"

"I'm looking into fixing it now," mumbled the Professor, frowning at bits of copper wire. After years of sand and grit wearing into the device, the wires had all but eroded. Copper would be hard to replace. They'd already melted down pennies for dental fillings and battery replacements. There weren't many other minerals on the island that could be used to replace metal wires. Not to mention the top of the radio was still bashed in. Even if they built a new frame, there was no guarantee it would get the same signal.

"Well, Professor?" prodded the Skipper after a few anxious minutes.

"It's hard to say," the Professor frowned at the crowd around him and started toward his hut. "I'll see what tools I can use and maybe we can try using it again in a few days." He paused outside the door and sighed, noticing everyone's hopeful looks. "I really can't promise anything though. We're lucky the radio has lasted us this long. It was bound to break at some time."

"If Gilligan hadn't—" The Skipper raised his hat; Gilligan flinched, but then somberly stayed in place, looking guilty enough that he would consider any punishment as just.

"The radio might have lasted a few months longer, yes. But judging from the state of these wires, I figure the device was already on its last legs." The Professor frowned again, then headed into his hut, muttering about copper and potential substitutes. Everyone else turned to stare at each other in concern.

"Couldn't Gilligan have broken the radio later today?" whined Mr. Howell. "Now I won't get to hear the Financial Times report."

"You heard the Professor, everyone," said the Skipper, sounding more solemn than usual. "The radio may be broken for good. We might have to accept the fact that we won't have news anymore."

"Oh dear!" Mary Ann looked teary-eyed. "I always liked hearing the news—just so I could reassure myself that everyone back home was safe and that life was normal. Now…"

"You'll simply have to imagine," said Skipper.

"We could act out our own news?" suggested Ginger. Yet even she didn't sound enthusiastic. "How will I know what films are being released in Hollywood?"

"I'm so sorry, everyone," sniffed Gilligan woefully. "Boy, am I sorry. I should just go live in the caves…"

Mary Ann grabbed his arm before he could do anything too rash. "Oh, Gilligan. The Professor said the wires were falling apart anyway. Don't blame yourself too much."

"But do blame yourself a little," said Mr. Howell, wrinkling his nose, obviously still upset about missing the Financial Times.

The Skipper just looked around the group and shook his head. "This might be harder than it seems, folks. It's only been a few minutes, but I'm already wondering what life's like on the mainland."

There was a chorus of agreements, then everyone fell silent, pondering the lives that lay beyond the sandy beach, and the ebbing tides, and the crashing waves of the far-too-large Pacific Ocean…

The Dazey House was quiet on the outside, complete with boring beige trim and boring beige shutters. A passerby wouldn't automatically suspect it was a governmentally instituted psychiatric ward—the permanent residence of twenty-some longtime patients. Patients for whom there was no cure.

Harold Crispin was one of these patients. After serving as a consultant alongside Oppenheimer on the Manhattan Project, he was well-respected in all scientific circles—one of the most brilliant nuclear physicists in the world. At least, he was until he began his ravings. At eighty-five years old, his mind was starting to go, said the doctors.

Harold Crispin was confusing nightmares with reality.

After raving about the world being destroyed by nuclear bombs, he had been dismissed from all government consulting positions. His retirement had been simple—except his crazed rants and dreams had frightened away most of his caregivers. Especially because he enjoyed running through the streets shouting the doom and gloom messages. It was behavior entirely inappropriate of such a previously respected man, and so, he had been designated to a peaceful, almost resort-like clinic on the island of Oahu. The Dazey House.

So far, Harold had only made three escape attempts, so he was doing quite fine, overall. A bit depressing to be around, but fine. One Saturday evening though, the dreams took hold with the strength of dragon talons. They would not relent, so neither did Harold. He crept into another patient's room and hopped through the window when none of the nurses were around. He was already halfway to the marina when the night-nurse realized he wasn't there to take his bedtime medicines. She sounded an alert and the director issued multiple search-parties.

But they were all too late.

Harold Crispin was free. Free to shout his gloomy dreams to the world, to the open sky, to the refreshing, unpolluted ocean. He stole a rowboat and was out to sea by the time the sunset faded.

"Should we call in the coast guard?" one of the orderlies asked, as he stood on the dock, next to the other search party members. "I can't see anyone out there, but it's obvious someone took the rowboat out in a hurry. See, they left the paddles."

Another orderly shrugged. "I suppose. If he washes up on Waimea beach, he'll scare the tourists pretty good." He laughed to himself, then motioned the others back to the psych ward, where they spent the next half-an-hour making calls.

"Okay. The coast guard will be on the lookout." The director set the phone back on the rack. "We might as well call it a night." He glanced toward one of the shuttered windows and sighed.

"I'm sure Harold will be found by morning."

For the castaways, the morning brought gray clouds and no progress on the radio.

"I thought that maybe I could find a substitute for the wiring, but then I realized the transistor was also shattered." The Professor set the mangled device on the breakfast table for everyone to see. "I'll keep working on it today though. It's a bit ashy out anyway—good day to stay inside."

"How come it's so ashy?" asked Gilligan, staring at the sky. "I promise I haven't set anything on fire today. At least not yet."

"Oh, it's probably just a volcano somewhere," said the Professor, still looking at the radio. "Islands in the South Pacific are usually created by volcanic activity. It's nothing new and nothing to worry about—as long as it's not on our island."

"Right. The last time a volcano tried to erupt we all nearly went up in smoke." The Skipper shuddered and Ginger laughed.

"Good thing Professor got us out of that lava vent. You know, all this talk about volcanoes reminds me of a movie I was in once. I had a tragic death scene as the sacrifice to a volcano goddess. Do you want to help me act it out, Mary Ann?"

"I don't see why not. Once I finish my pie."

"Oh boy!" Gilligan clapped his hands. "Your pies are my favorites!"

Mary Ann dimpled as she took a bite of the coconut-based flapjacks.

"Well, in my opinion, the foul air gives us all a good excuse to sit around and listen to the daily news," said Mr. Howell. "If you finish the radio by the midday broadcast, Professor, I'll give you a little Christmas bonus."

"But, dear, it's July," Mrs. Howell reminded him.

"And who says I'm not generous?" Mr. Howell laughed loudly, while the Professor just shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Howell. I can't just make it work… I'll do my best, but there's no sense in trying to bribe me."

"Oh, but you can bribe me," Ginger volunteered. "I'll take a Christmas bonus any day."

"Yeah, me too!" said the Skipper, grinning.

"Or me!" Mary Ann piped up.

Mr. Howell glanced at his companions' eager faces and grimaced. "Ha, well as Lovey pointed out, it is July."

By the time dinner rolled around, the skies had cleared up, but not the radio situation. It had been an entire day without news and no one was happy.

By the following afternoon, spirits were even worse.

"I think we have to accept that the radio may never work again," said the Professor as everyone sat around after lunch. "I've tried substituting metals, I've even tried using a battery derived from coconut oil, but every part of the radio has something wrong with it—from the dials to the signal. I simply don't have the materials to fix it."

"Well, you did your best," the Skipper mumbled. No one else had anything to say.

This was it. The end of news—the end of hearing about life on the mainland. There was a sort of solemn finality, as if life on the island had suddenly become far more permanent than it had seemed yesterday.

"Excuse me," Mary Ann got up from the table, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Ginger followed her a few seconds later. Then the Howells retired as well. The Professor went back to his books—just in case he'd missed something—which left the Skipper and Gilligan alone to ponder their radio-less future.

"I sure am sorry," said Gilligan, taking off his hat and creasing it in his hands. "I should never have dropped those logs and—"

"Oh, Little Buddy," the Skipper interrupted. "I'm just as much to blame. I shouted at you and you obeyed and dropped the logs and now we've got no radio." He sighed and took off his hat as well. "Now what are we going to do with our afternoons? We don't have the news to listen to."

"Oh, there's all sorts of hobbies, Skipper." Gilligan seemed to perk up a little bit. "Motorcycle racing, for instance. I've always thought that would be a good hobby."

The captain sighed. Typical Gilligan. "And where exactly are you going to get a motorcycle?"

Gilligan raised a hand, then paused, mid-motion. "That's a good question, Skipper. But you never know. One could always wash ashore."

"Yeah. And I can sprout wings and fly back to Hawaii."

"Wow! That's cool, Skipper, can—"

"Gilligan!" He smacked his first mate with his hat, and Gilligan jumped to his feet sheepishly.

"I'm going to walk down to the lagoon, Skipper. Unless you need me."

"No, Gilligan."

"Okay!" The first mate jogged away, evidently sensing his friend's annoyance radiating through the camp. The Skipper sat back at the table and sighed again for good measure. What had he ever done to be stuck with a first mate like Gilligan? As he was debating this important question, there was a sudden shout from the lagoon.

"SKIPPER! SKIPPER! PROFESSOR!"

"Now what?" muttered the Skipper, even though no one was around to answer. He started walking toward the sound of Gilligan's excited cries. If a motorcycle had actually washed ashore, he was going to eat his hat.

"SKIPPER! SKIPPER! PROFESSOR!"

"What's going on?" The Professor caught up to Skipper and frowned. "What's Gilligan doing now?"

"I guess we'll find out." Both men turned the corner and saw Gilligan waving excitedly. Shards of painted wood were strewn around him haphazardly, and a person—an old man, to be exact—was unconscious in the middle of the mess.

"Look what I found!" called Gilligan, as both the Skipper and the Professor ignored him and rushed to help the old man.

"It's looks like he was in a rowboat," the Skipper commented. "It must have come in with the tide and crashed against the sandbar."

"He's still breathing," said the Professor. "We'd better get him back to camp so I can see if he's been injured badly." The Professor took a step back, once more glancing at the dashed rowboat and the weathered old man with concern. "He doesn't look too well. I wonder how long he's been on that boat? At his age, I'm not sure he'll ever recover after something like this."

"Well, let's hope he does." The Skipper helped the Professor carry the limp figure back to the camp. Mary Ann, Ginger, and the Howells quickly flocked to see what was happening.

"They found a man in a rowboat?" Mary Ann stood on her tiptoes to see over Mr. Howell's shoulder.

"Don't get too excited. It's a really old man." Ginger's voice was glum.

"Oh, Thurston, I do believe he looks familiar," Mrs. Howell commented. "Did we ever see him at a party?"

"Not that I remember. Though if we did, I probably wouldn't recognize him, not when he's dressed like this." Mr. Howell wrinkled his nose at the tattered and loosely fitted psych ward uniform. "He looks like a convict in that outfit."

"It's probably some sort of hospital insignia," the Professor said. "But strangely enough, he does look familiar—to me too."

"Well then it couldn't have been one of our parties," said Mrs. Howell. "No offense, Professor."

"Why don't we wake him up and ask him who he is?" suggested Gilligan. Before the others could offer up protests, Gilligan reached for the water pitcher, left on the table after lunch. He flipped it upside down, pouring its contents onto the old man's head.

The Skipper started to raise his voice. "Gillig—!"

With a shocked sputter, the man opened his eyes and looked around. He sat up stiffly, then began gasping. "What's going on? Where am I? What have you done with me?!"

"Sir, please calm down," said the Professor, trying to gently place a hand on the man's shoulder. Instead the man jerked away, jumping off the table and collapsing into the sand.

"Dust, dust, that's all that's left!" He spat the dirt out of his mouth, then dissolved into a coughing fit.

"Please, try to get ahold of yourself," the Professor tried again. Ginger reached out to steady the man and not surprisingly, her charm never ceased to fail. The man allowed himself to be gently seated on the ground. The others all crouched in the sand too, curious to see who the newcomer was—and how he had found their island.

"Okay…we'll take this slowly. Can you tell us who you are?" The Professor spoke slowly and clearly, trying to make sure the man was listening.

"It's all gone, it's all gone," the man whimpered softly. "We thought the bombs would work…but they've destroyed…everything!" He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth, weeping.

"Bombs!" The Professor glanced at the others and snapped his fingers. "Harold Crispin! That's who this is. He worked on the atomic bomb along with Oppenheimer!"

"Well that explains it. He made newspaper headlines, but definitely wasn't at our parties," said Mrs. Howell.

"So, he's a scientist then?" Ginger asked. "And he's saying everything was destroyed?"

The Skipper raised his eyebrows, looking panicked. He crouched down in front of Harold. "Sir, if you'd please, can you explain what happened to you?"

Harold blinked a few times more than necessary, his eyes unfocused, as if he was staring at scenes beyond the island.

"Harold?" Ginger repeated the question, lightly rubbing the man's shoulders. "We need you, Harold."

His eyes refocused for a moment, and he nodded. "Well, I was in Oahu, at some government place, and then…" his voice drifted off. He started shaking. "The bombs…we said they could destroy the world and we were right! Oh, we were right…we were right!" He started rocking back and forth again and very slowly, all the castaways exchanged looks.

"The radio has been dead for over two days," said the Skipper slowly.

"And the ash…it's been smoky," Mary Ann reminded everyone.

"A nuclear bomb could have gone off…and we wouldn't even know about it," Ginger said softly, glancing at the Professor for confirmation.

He stared at everyone solemnly, evidently doing the math in his head. "If so…we should be seeing an increase in tidal waves…"

"Such as the one Harold washed in on?" asked Skipper.

The Professor didn't respond. He turned back to the old man. "Harold, er…Dr. Crispin? Where did the bombs go off?"

Harold still had his arms wrapped around his torso, evidently trying to bring himself some semblance of comfort. "Everything's gone. Everywhere. Everyone. There's nothing left! Nothing!"

"Nothing?" echoed Mr. Howell. "Not even Fort Knox?"

"No one?" asked Mary Ann. "Not even civilians?"

"It's all gone. We're all that's left. Dust! Dust!" Harold suddenly seized handfuls of sand and then let out a horrified shout, jumping to his feet. "It's gone! It's my fault! The world…is gone. I'm…so…sorry."

Harold Crispin dropped to his knees, still mouthing apologies. And then he pitched headfirst into the sand, falling still.

"Ahh! Is he?" Ginger jumped up, looking panicked. Mrs. Howell fainted.

The Professor and the Skipper were at the old man's side in an instant, but they could both see the glaze in Harold's eyes and they knew it was too late.

Harold Crispin was gone.

And according to what they'd just heard…

…So was the rest of the world.