The Tale of a Fateful Trip Pt. 2: 1965 (R)
Happy New Year.
I haven’t written in this journal in some time but I have two reasons for this, one mundane and the other quite extraordinary. Firstly, my ballpoint pen ran out of ink weeks ago and I have just now perfected the right blend of plant dye and pigment to make a suitable substitute. Secondly, I have been somewhat distracted of late by the completely unexpected attentions of Ginger Grant. Not as well-versed in the ways of the heart as, say, the physical sciences, I can only relate that Ginger and I are involved in something akin to a love affair. Unlikely as it seems, this turn of events was instigated purely by Ginger, prompted by, as she said, “something in your eyes answering a question in my heart.” This kind of input is inconclusive and does nothing to explain how here, in a remote corner of the Southern Hemisphere, yours truly is receiving a most vigorous education at the hands of Hollywood’s eighth most bankable starlet (so she describes herself). As I write this she’s asleep beside me – tired not from the day’s labors (I have been shouldering most of her chores as I can no longer imagine her straining those delicate arms hauling wood or water), but from this evening’s session of lovemaking.
Tomorrow I have promised to devote my time to creating a natural replacement for Ginger’s hair dye. Though I am loath to dispel the popular image of her held so sacred by her admiring public, I can with some authority report that Miss Ginger Grant was not born a redhead.
Log of the Minnow; Jonas Grumby, Cptn. Feb. 14, 1965:
16th straight day of rain. This morning I made some cute comment about how this weather makes you wish you’d been born with gills and Hinkley’s gotta pipe up to say how we all did have gills in the womb. Fucking smartass. Everybody’s in a black mood and most are too sick to look after themselves. Which leaves me and Mary Ann and Gilligan to pick up the slack. Everybodys still looking to the prof tho, like hes got all the answers. Well its one thing to know the latin name for the flu but its another thing not to catch it.
Prof. Roy Hinkley’s journal. 2/19/65
So dreadfully sick as of this writing. The rains are unending and all we can do is huddle together in the chill, spreading germs with each phlegmy breath. Ginger, the Howells and I are stricken with the flu and we must take pains to avoid escalating into full-blown pneumonia. Given our situation with no antibiotics or medical supplies of any kind, such an illness could be a death sentence. So here I am shoulder to shoulder with one of the wealthiest men on the planet and a nationally known sex symbol shivering in feverish misery and trying to write this by lamplight across wrinkling pages. I wish I knew the local weather patterns better so that I might predict an end to this
Gilligan is here with some warm liquid he calls soup.
Log of the Minnow; Jonas Grumby, Cptn. Feb. 28, 1965:
Got hit with a big one. The flooding got so bad we had to scrabble up the hills to hide out in the caves. Thought it was bad going up but then Howell starts screaming for his wife. Luvee! Luvee! Has anybody seen Luvee! Shit. So back down I go in zero viz. to find the sick old broad just shivering and twitching where our hut used to be. Put her over my shoulder and climbed back up the rocks with a river of nonstop muddy water trying to sweep me off, lightning popping all over the place and only one hand to haul us both up with. Sliced me up good. Anyway, got to the cave and everybody was really quiet. Scared, I think. I don’t know. Nobody talked, it was just the rain and the thunder out there. And fucking cold.