After years of experience, Gilligan had learned to weather the Skipper's fits of temper the way other sailors learned how to ride out a tempest. He considered any number of hiding places he could drop anchor in until the latest storm blew over, but on second thoughts, decided that this was probably just a brief squall. In any case, he thought, grinning, his big buddy wasn't exactly hard to outrun.

Following the course charted by his growling stomach, Gilligan headed back to camp. When he got there, he found Mary Ann by her stone-and-wood cooking range, looking disconsolately at a lengthy paper list. "Hi, Mary Ann. Can I help get lunch started? I'm starved."

She dragged a hand through her dark hair. "Oh, I've hardly had a chance to think about lunch, Gilligan! I just managed to get away from Mrs. Howell!"

"Mrs. Howell? What did she want?"

"She was going over the special menu for the garden party. All these fancy hors d'oeuvres, followed by a three-course meal! I can't cook all this!"

"Why not?"

The girl sighed and shook the paper as though trying to strangle a snake. "Look at these things! I can't even pronounce half of them!"

Gilligan took up a length of the offending paper and read it. "I can't pronounce them either, Mary Ann, but I bet I could eat them. Come on. You're a great cook. You've been cooking all your life – you told me so."

"Gilligan, that was just simple, down-home cooking for the farm hands – I'm no French chef!"

"So you made turtle soup and grilled swordfish and coconut cream pie on the farm in Kansas?"

She blinked. "What are you talking about? Of course I didn't!"

"But you do here, and they're great. You could figure out how to make these horses' derves or whatever they are. I bet they'd be delicious."

She burst into a smile. "Oh, thanks, Gilligan. Well, I'll try, anyhow. And as soon as I'm done putting together those extra first aid kits the Professor asked for, I'll get started on lunch." She glanced behind his shoulder and her brown eyes suddenly widened in dismay. "Oh, no!"

"What is it?" Gilligan spun, fearing the Skipper had already gotten loose from the glue. But it was only Mrs. Howell in her gold lame pantsuit, tiptoeing up to them with her gloved hands in the air. "Oh. Hi, Mrs. Howell."

"Gilligan, dear, how far have the Professor and the Skipper gotten with their preparations?"

"Well…not too far. They're kinda stuck right now."

The society matron quivered with delight and touched his cheek fondly. "Oh, you dear boy! We knew we could count on you!"

Gilligan sneaked a worried glance at Mary Ann before lturning back to Mrs. Howell in complete confusion. "Huh?"

"Come along, now, Gilligan. I need you to help me with something for the party. I won't keep you a minute." She pulled eagerly at his red shirt.

This time Mary Ann sneaked a glance at Gilligan and shrugged as if to say, good luck!

****************

Moments later, in the Howell hut, Mrs. Howell sat down at her vanity table and opened a small, leather-bound volume. "I've found it, you see! I've found it!"

"That's great, Mrs. Howell. What'd you lose?"

"I didn't lose it, dear boy. I simply couldn't find it. But here it is! The very thing!"

Gilligan raised his eyebrows. "Well, I'm glad you've found what you didn't lose, Mrs. Howell. What is it, anyway?"

"I'm going to perform a poetry recital at the party and I've found the most wonderful poem!" She opened the book and peered through her lorgnette. "High Tide Off the Coast of Lincolnshire by Jean Ingelow. It's terribly exciting. Why, you should appreciate it, Gilligan, being of a nautical bent. It's about a tidal wave that struck the coast of England in 1571."

The young sailor was dubious, but as always with Mrs. Howell, he was quietly polite. "Gosh, I never heard of England having a tidal wave, Mrs. Howell, but if you say so…"

"It's based on a true story, I understand. It's terribly dramatic."

"I'll bet it is." Curious, Gilligan peered over her shoulder at the pages and drew back, puzzled. "If that's English, I think I went to the wrong school! What's an egyre?"

"Oh…" Mrs. Howell touched the tip of her lorgnette to her lip, trying to remember. "We learned the poem in school years ago. I do believe our teacher said it's the old name for a wave."

"And the Lindis?

"That's the name of a river, dear."

"Oh. And Mews? Pewits?" Gilligan was peering at the book again. "Sounds like something the Skipper might call me."

"Mews and pewits are birds, dear boy. Rather like a seagull, I believe." The island's matriarch looked worried for a moment. "Oh, dear. Perhaps I should put some explanatory notes in the program, otherwise I'll just confuse everyone!" She sighed in happy consternation. "Oh, I have a thousand things to do!"

"Well, come to think of it," said Gilligan as he looked towards the French doors and felt uncomfortably shut in, "I do too, and if the Skipper comes back and finds I'm not doing any work, he's gonna be kinda sore at me…"

"Oh, pooh! The dear Captain and Professor really are most tiresome with all of this earthquake nonsense. They're disrupting our preparation plans dreadfully and there really is no need. After all, we have those little tremors all the time!"

"Little tremors?" Gilligan's dark eyebrows flew like wings. "Mrs. Howell, the Skipper and I nearly went into orbit!"

"Oh, Gilligan! You do say the most amusing things!"

"Thanks, Mrs. Howell. But what do you need me for? You want me to recite a poem at the party? I know this one: The owl and the pussycat went to sea/in a beautiful pea-green boat…"

She shook her head. "No, thank you, dear. What I need is an audience to help me concentrate while I practice, but everyone's so busy. It's such an awfully long poem and I'm so worried I shan't be able to remember it."

"Maybe if you just tucked a note in the palm of your hand—"

"Oh, no, no, that would never do!" She flapped her lace handkerchief in gentle remonstration. "Just sit quiet and listen, there's a good boy."

He looked unhappily at the doors again. "Okay, Mrs. Howell. Just for a minute."

Gilligan sat down on the bamboo chair she indicated while Mrs. Howell stood and assumed a solemn stance. Her voice grew low and her hands in their long white gloves swept in grand dramatic gestures.

"Men say it was a stolen tide

The Lord that sent it, He knows all

But in mine ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall

And there was naught of strange beside

The flight of mews and pewits pied

By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall."

Mrs. Howell looked down at him. "Isn't it splendid, Gilligan? Such a wonderful eerie picture of the birds all lining the seashore. It seems they knew the wave was coming."

"Sure is creepy, all right," said Gilligan, shivering a little as he pictured it in his mind's eye.

"Oh, it's simply delicious! The narrator is an elderly lady, you see. The next part is where her son comes riding up with news from the town."

Gilligan sighed and hunched his shoulders, waiting nervously for the Skipper's impatient shout.

The old sea wall (he cried) is down

The rising tide comes on apace

And boats adrift in yonder town

Go sailing up the marketplace!

"Isn't that an unforgettable image, Gilligan?"

Gilligan nodded emphatically. "I'll say. Boy, if all the boats in the Ala Wai Harbour had gone sailing up Kapiolani Boulevard, the Skipper would have had a fit! He always did say the traffic in downtown Honolulu was crazy." Gilligan shifted nervously. "Uh…speaking of the Skipper—"

But Mrs. Howell was at it again:

A mighty eygre reared his crest,

And up the Lindis raging sped

It swept with thunderous noises loud

Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,

Or like a demon in a shroud.

Gilligan had known far more storms and terrible waves than Mrs. Howell. He began to shiver again.

So fast, so far the egyre drave

The heart had hardly time to beat

Before a shallow, seething wave

Sobb'd in the grasses at our feet

The feet had hardly time to flee

Before it brake against the knee

And all the world was in the sea.

Gilligan hiked up his feet in fear of the imaginary deluge as Mrs. Howell finished in a voice low and trembling with doom. "M-Mrs. Howell, I really oughtta get going!"

"What are you talking about, Gilligan? It's only a poem."

"Yeah, but--"

"Gilligan!" came a roar like the mighty egyre itself.

Gilligan skittered to his feet so quickly that he knocked over his chair. "Correction – it's already here! Uh…your poem sounds great! I know everybody'll love it! See you later, Mrs. Howell!" He set the chair teetering on its legs again and dashed out.

"Oh, pooh," Mrs. Howell murmured, peering through her lorgnette at the poem again. "The Captain and the Professor and their tiresome disasters! There were still ten more verses!"