For all that the castaways had all the time in the world as they waited and schemed to be rescued, Gilligan was forever conscious that there always seemed to be so much to do. Water had to be brought from the spring, firewood had to be chopped and coconuts gathered in. Even fishing was no longer a leisurely pastime but a necessity for survival. And quite an urgent one as he had been unable to catch anything for over a week now and the limited and monotonous vegetarian diet was causing tensions to fray on the island.
And as he stood in the punishing sun, that was only just starting to go down, holding a fishing rod that hadn't caught a single bite all afternoon he was starting to wonder why it seemed to be him who was assigned to all these chores.
'No, that's not fair,' his mind castigated. 'Mary Ann and Ginger cook and clean and do the sewing, the Howells are old they can't be expected to do such strenuous work, and the Professor is hard at work coming up with new rescue plans. And you've got the Skipper to help you out.'
"Huh, help me?" he muttered, laying down the rod, picking up a stone and hurling it grumpily into the water with a plop. "He prefers to cap slap me for not working fast enough, or being clumsy or fouling up."
As if on cue a ringing yell reverberated through the jungle.
"GILLIGAN!"
Gilligan rolled his eyes and turned towards the voice, 'Oh great, what have I done now?' he thought.
"Just coming Skipper!" he shouted back, running off in the direction of the voice and trying to tamp down the feelings of anger and resentment he had been feeling earlier. They all meant well after all; there was no malice from any of them, just the natural frustrations of a group thrust together in an inescapable situation. Anyway he was sure they each had their own problems, they didn't need to be burdened by his.
As often happened, his preoccupations caused him to not notice a low hanging branch which he sped into at full pelt knocking him flat on his back. It was happening more and more frequently lately and he got the feeling that the Skipper's patience and sympathy for his injuries was growing thin on the ground. So he wasn't in the least surprised when a large shadow fell over him and he was roughly manhandled to his feet.
"Gilligan! Where have you been? I've been calling you for ages. Where's the fish for dinner?"
Gilligan looked about him in confusion; how'd it get so dark all of a sudden?
The Skipper tapped his foot impatiently. "Well?"
"Well, what?" Gilligan was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.
"Where's the fish?!"
"Sorry Skipper, they just weren't biting again today," he said.
He rubbed at the painful lump that was already forming on his forehead.
"Oh, that's fine," said the Skipper sarcastically. "Some mighty sailor man you are who can't catch a poxy fish. What, then, do you propose we have to eat? Some rare beef steak conjured out of thin air by magic perhaps?
"Oh yeah, that would be real nice!" he said before he could stop himself. He knew the Skipper had been joking but his imagination was already off on flights of fancy of its own and they had a tendency to overrule both his brain and his mouth.
"Gah..." He took off his cap and bashed Gilligan over the head with it harder than usual paying no heed to his wince and pained expression.
"Come on, let's just get back to the others," said the Skipper with a sigh, giving up on his hopeless first mate.
As they left neither of them noticed the bloodstained stone on the ground where Gilligan had been lying.