From The Archives: Gilligan's Island of Mystery!

This piece was originally posted on my old blog on August 10th, 2015. If memory serves, the intent was to do a short story that merged 'Gilligan's Island' and 'Lost.' Not an original idea, I admit. It never came to fruition. Maybe this'll spark something. Either way, enjoy.

So, I answer an ad from someone seeking a first mate on a charter conducting three-hour tours around the Hawaiian. Next thing I know, I'm playing Ishmael to the skipper's Ahab as he chases something he swears is a kraken. I begged him to stop, but his megalomania took over and before we knew it we were over a hundred miles off course. A fifth of whiskey and a violent storm later and we're shipwrecked. I'm lying flat on my back on the beach staring up at life of regret.

"Gilligan!"

The voice of our skipper is calling my name. I flip over and see Skipper facing a dense jungle about forty yards ahead. I can hardly see into it. I dare not venture in, either. Who knows what could be lurking in there? Lions? Giant snakes? Canadians?

"Gilligan!"

"An island?" I ask. I'm terrible at small talk. I prefer deep, penetrating conversation about things that matter like religion, politics, or philosophy.

"Uncharted, I imagine." The skipper is a big man. Broad shoulders. Tough. Salty as the seas he sails. "Are the others okay? Anyone hurt?"

The others consist of a college professor, a millionaire couple, and two beautiful women. They booked a charter to see the islands and now we're all here. Wherever here is.

"I don't know yet," I say.

"This is my fault," Skipper says with a weary sigh. "Damn kraken. I almost had it, too."

"I don't think there really was a kraken," I say.

"Do you know krakens?"

"No, sir."

"Alright, then."

He walks over to the college professor, who has been sitting on a rock working our ship's radio. He wears a white collared shirt and khakis because I guess he thought dress code for the tour was business casual.

"How's the radio coming?" I ask the professor.

"It's useless! Useless! I've been working on this thing for over ten minutes and nothing is working!" He picks up a stray coconut lying next to him and bangs violently on the radio, spilling its electronic guts onto the sand. I can't contain myself and vomit.

"Why did you do that?" Skipper demands. "That was our chance to communicate with the outside world!"

"My apologies," The Professor says. "I struggle with manual labor. Using tools and repairing electronics is not my forte." He is clearly choking back tears, which makes me vomit again.

"I thought you were a professor," I say, wiping my mouth with my shirt sleeve.

"I teach 18th century Norwegian erotica at private liberal arts school in Oregon, not radio repair at Vatterot."

Before Skipper can bludgeon the professor with the same coconut used on the poor, defenseless boat radio, an unearthly roar erupts from the depths of the jungle. It sounds like an elephant being dropped from the top of the Empire State Building and landing on a dump truck filled with whoopie cushions.

"What was that?" I say.

The sound is enough to rouse the others. Ginger, a movie star, stood next to Mary Ann, a prototypical girl-next-door. A shimmering white evening gown clings snugly to Ginger's feminine form, accentuating each curve. Her auburn hair maintains its form despite the rough shipwreck. Mary Ann wears her dark hair in pigtails, a halter top showing off her tan mid-rift and tiny denim shorts. Her round expressive eyes portray both innocence and smoldering sexuality. Their wardrobe choices, while jaw-droppingly attractive, are wildly inappropriate for a three-hour charter ride.

Ginger and Mary Ann easily provide textbook examples of the two idealized women men conjure. I stand admiring both of them equally, unsure how any man could possibly distinguish one over the other. Both so beautiful but for different reasons. Both so feminine in different ways. Both so seductive in their own right. I forgot where I was going with this. Oh. Yeah. The millionaire couple clamors on about the roar we all heard. They're called the Howells. Or something. Maybe the Hoovers. Did I mention Ginger and  Mary Ann?

"Probably just one of the indigenous creatures to this island," the Professor says.

"What kind of creature would make that noise?" I ask.

"Again," the Professor huffs. "18th century Norwegian erotica. Unless it's a Nokken or a Draugen engaging a mating ritual, I know nothing."

"Krakens are Norwegian," says Skipper.

"Look!" Ginger points toward the jungle opening with her long, slender arm. Her skin is much fairer than Mary Ann's, but still so smooth and soft. Mary Ann gasps and covers her willowy lips and those dreamy eyes widened even more. 

What was I talking about?

Oh. Yes. The giant spider. The ungodly sound comes from a giant spider that is now barreling at us from the jungle. It lumbers along and we all scream and scatter on the beach. Suddenly, three gunshots pierce the air and sink into the spider's face. It drops dead just a couple of feet from me. I can barely stand I am shaking so much. I may have peed a little. Understandable when you consider it's a giant spider and I forgot to pee before we left on the cruise. We all turn toward the direction of the gunfire and see Mrs. Howell still gripping the weapon she fired, a small revolver.

"Where did you get that gun?" I ask.

"It's not mine. I found it on the boat," Mrs. Howell says. "You were all gawking and screaming like little bitches. I took action."

"That's my Lovey," coos Mr. Howell, placing a sweet peck on her cheek.

"Skipper," the Professor stands over the dead arachnid. "Do you normally carry a revolver on your charters?"

"Yes, I do," Skipper says. "For the kraken. And the pirates. And sometimes I just wanna shoot shit. But the one Mrs. Howell used is not mine. Someone else brought a gun with them."

I poke at the spider with a palm branch to certify its death. I call it at 11:48 a.m. even though I am not wearing a watch and have no clue as to what time it really is.

A dead spider.  A mysterious gun. Lost in time.

"Guys?" I look at the jungle before us. "Where are we?"