The wind was howling like a lost soul. The storm had been raging all day, and the cave they were sheltering in, which had seemed so spacious and comfortable when they had first found it, was becoming less so by the moment. There wasn't much doubt that they were going to be faced with an unspeakable mess once the storm finally ended… if it ever did, which was starting to seem less and less likely. The mood in the cave was grim, and the lantern swinging from a projection in the ceiling cast eerie shadows over worried faces.

"Way, hey, and up she rises… way, hey, and up she rises… way, hey, and up she rises… err-lie in the morning," Gilligan chanted, not quite under his breath, keeping time to his singing with a complex rhythm tapped out on his knees.

"For pity's sake, Gilligan," snapped Mr. Howell. "Aren't things dismal enough without you groaning on over there?"

"Oh, I'm not groaning, Mr. Howell," he said cheerfully. "I'm singing!"

"Heavens! I'd rather you groaned!"

Gilligan let that roll off his back. "It's an old sea song," he explained, and started again, louder. "What shall we do with the drunken sailor?"

The Skipper chuckled, and joined in. "What shall we do with the drunken sailor? Oh, what shall we do with the drunken sailor? Err-lie in the morning! Way, hey, and up she rises! Way, hey, and up she rises—c'mon, everyone!"

Ginger, always up for a performance, added her soprano to the mix. "Way, hey, and up she rises, err-lie in the morning. Why 'err-lie,' instead of 'earl-lee,' Skipper?"

"Not a clue," he said jovially. "Sailors have been singing it that way for a hundred years. They used to have a lot of these old songs, and they'd sing 'em as they worked, to keep everyone on the right pace. So they all have about a million verses." He cleared his throat, and sang again. "Stick him in the longboat till he's sober!"

Gilligan sang along with him, continuing to beat out the rhythm on a convenient cask. One by one, the others joined in, at least on the choruses, as the poor drunken sailor had his whiskers shaved with a rusty razor, was thrown headlong into the bilge, and hosed down in the scuppers, punctuated with brief explanations of the more obscure of the nautical terms.

"Put him into bed with the Captain's Daughter…" started the Skipper, but was interrupted by a gasp from Mrs. Howell.

"Really, Captain! Such language! I beg you, do remember that there are ladies present!"

Ginger and Mary Ann traded glances, then looked away, trying not to giggle.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Howell—it's not like that at all," Skipper soothed. "The 'Captain's Daughter' wasn't a person. It's a nickname for a cat o' nine tails. Back in the old days, they used to keep discipline onboard by whipping the sailors when they screwed up."

Slowly, one at a time, the others all turned to look at Gilligan. He jumped theatrically as the weight of their glances fell on him, then folded his arms and mock-glared. "Oh, ha, ha. Very funny," he said sarcastically. "Heh. How about this?" He beat a tattoo on his makeshift drum. "Make him go on a good strict diet! Make him go on a good strict diet! Oh, make him go on a good strict diet! Err-lie in the morning!" He looked at the Skipper, raised an eloquent eyebrow, and launched into the chorus, half praying. Play along, Skipper! Come on, play along! Please!

And the Skipper, God bless his wits, got the message. "Oh, yeah? Have him fetch all our wood and water!" he sang.

Gilligan grinned. "Joke's on you, Skipper—I already do that!" He blinked. "Hey, wait a minute!"

Now everyone was chuckling, and they finished the verse in enthusiastic, if slightly wobbly, unison. And mostly on key, too.

The Professor, of all people, improvised the next line. "Taste this extract and see what happens!"

Ginger and Mary Ann whispered to each other as the others finished that one, and stifled giggles through the chorus, and then, lightning-quick, each of them reached over and grabbed a hat. Ginger took the Skipper's, and Mary Ann snatched Gilligan's. Together, they sang, "Hide his cap where he'll never find it!" As the others joined in, they traded, then dropped the caps on the wrong heads as the chorus ended.

Gilligan pulled off the too-large hat, held it by the brim as the Skipper did. Eyes gleaming with pure mischief, he looked the Skipper up and down.

The Skipper shot back his best did-you-want-to-be-buried-or-cremated glare, only slightly marred by the deviltry in his own eyes. Gilligan played to the crowd and jumped, brushing imaginary dust off the cap before handing it over with a meek, hangdog expression. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders in exaggerated anticipation. The Skipper just resettled his cap on his own head with a snort, and plunked Gilligan's onto his, tugging it down over his nose for good measure.

Gilligan snickered, pulling it back into place, and sang another round of the chorus, and the others joined in with no hesitation whatsoever. Ginger even sang harmony in her high, sweet voice. Oh, this was going better than he'd dared to hope, and he hadn't even gotten walloped. The drunken sailor's day got progressively worse as, one by one, the castaways improvised verses about their least favorite island activities; he gutted a mountain of fish, pedaled the washer, built complex equipment from shells and palm fronds, dug refuse pits, fought off headhunters, tried to sleep through the Skipper's snoring—that one did earn Gilligan a crack over the head—cooked yet another coconut-heavy meal, and a thousand other tiny indignities that were suddenly funny, there in the cave with a monsoon raging outside.

The lantern was guttering as the Skipper yawned tremendously, and looked around the cave. The Howells were fast asleep in each other's arms, with Teddy held between them. The girls were both asleep, too, one on either side of the Professor, who was snoring. "I have to hand it to you," the Skipper said. "You did it again, little buddy. You sure got everyone calmed down."

"We did it, Skipper," Gilligan corrected. "If you hadn't gotten everyone singing along, I'd've been sunk two verses out."

"Well, it was a good idea." He yawned again. "Took everyone's mind right off the storm—hey, wait a minute!" He listened intently. "The wind stopped! The storm is over!"

"Yup. Somewhere between the verse about the leak in the shower barrel and the one about chopping pineapples, I forget exactly when."

"And why didn't you say anything?"

"What for?" he shrugged. "It's already night out there, and wet and cold, and the roofs on the huts are probably halfway to Maui by now. Why stop everyone when they're having fun, just so we can go stumble around in the dark and try to get a look at a whole lot of mess we can't do anything about, anyway? That junk isn't going anywhere. We can deal with it later."

The Skipper nodded; the logic was sound. "When did you have in mind to start dealing with it?"

"When else?" Gilligan stretched like a cat, and settled himself, his hands interlaced behind his head. His eyes gleamed in the last bit of light as the lantern gave up the ghost. "Err-lie in the morning, of course."