Week Nineteen: Shipwreck Party

A few costume ideas . . .

A big part of me really thinks that Cokesbury’s Shipwreck Party came a few decades too early. Back in 1932, about the only shipwreck reference common in popular culture was that of Robinson Crusoe. Crusoe’s fictional tale, while compelling, hardly has the panache of today’s shipwreck ethos. No Gilligan running around getting chased by cannibals or giant spiders, or eating bowls full of glow-goo. No Captain Jack Sparrow fixating on why the rum is gone or schizophrenically chatting to doppelgangers as eerie rock crabs scuttle about his ship, marooned in the salt flats.

Sinclair Lewis-themed segue: Alan Hale, Jr., who played Capt. Jonas Grumby in Gilligan’s Island, is the son of Alan Hale, Sr., who played Miles Bjornstam in a 1923 adaptation of Lewis’ Main Street novel.

But what Cokesbury lacks in overall shipwreckery panache, it more than makes up for it by the sheer weight of the recommended decorations and sheer pointlessness of party activities, as you’ll soon see.

But first, the obligatory invitation, accompanied by a reminder that this is a costume party:

It is the good ship – Friendship –
That sails in our social sea.
But on Friday night we’ll make believe
That the ship no more shall be.
For we’re having a Shipwreck Party,
And you are just to wear
What you salvaged from a shipwreck,
What that is we do not care.
The ship, of course, met this disaster
In the still hours of the night.
So wear what you would first pick up
Were you forced to sudden flight.

Now, on to the decorations. In the past, Cokesbury has recommended you find your more obscure decorations (remember those hatchet-shaped cards) at your local five-and-dime. This time, they offer no suggestions, but, perhaps, intimate that such a party is better hosted in a locale such as Palm Beach, where such frippery is readily available:

Decorations. A few old anchors, ropes, life-preservers, boats, and yacht chairs would make good decorations and furnishings. Also have some steamer chairs or some beach chairs. The hose and the hostess may be dressed in sailor suits, as the idea might be that a party of shipwrecked persons was picked up by another boat. Even the social committee, the judges of the costumes, and those planning the party may be dressed as sailors or in a yachting suit.

Gee. Here I am in landlocked Idaho. Anchors aren’t all that common around here, even in the best ship's chandlers offices. Life preservers I’ve got. And a canoe. A few paddles. That inflatable raft with the hole in it. Maybe I can make this work. Just as soon as I can find a sailor suit. Don’t some sailors wear bib overalls?

The rest of the evening, apparently, will be spent faithfully recreating the drudgery of either being stranded on some desert isle or in the company of sailors who are too busy staving off homosexuality to do anything more constructive or interesting. Behold the eye-matching activity:

Matching Partners: Eyes. Have the women find a partner by finding a man that has the same color eyes as herself. In case there is an argument about the proper matching, the leader must decide the case.

I’m sure you’re waiting for the rest of the activity. I know I am. But that’s it. I even checked to make sure a page wasn’t missing from the book, or that two pages were stuck together by cocktail sauce or something. But that’s it. Ladies, find someone with matching eyes. Wasn’t that entertaining?

But there’s more:

Making the Best of a Shipwreck. Give the guests papers and pencils and sheets of paper on which has been written at the top the word “shipwreck.” Let the couples work together at this and see which couple can make the most words in a given time. Give a prize for the longest list and have this list read.

Damn, that Professor's Good

Now, the Professor from Gilligan’s Island knew how to make the best of a shipwreck. Give him a little time, some bamboo and a few coconuts and he’ll have you sitting in a Bamboo-Lounger listening to hi-fi recordings of Gilligan being chased by cannibals through the coconut earphones. He did not, however, gather the other castaways about and insist they find out how many words they could make out of “shipwreck.” Even Gilligan would have beaten him if he’d suggested such a thing.

So let’s do something entertaining, yeah? How about this:

Quiots. Get rubber quoits from the five-and-ten-cent store. Have a quiot tournament. Divide into groups of eight and match two players against the other two, letting them play four at a time. The winners in the first game play the winners in the second game. The two players who win in each of the groups of eight can then play off the tournament. Give a prize to the couple that wins the tournament.

Now really, such games are entertaining, especially when played by those who really think tey know what they’re doing. A few years ago, I played a few rounds of petanque – we know that game in America as bocce – with a few swells in France. The older gentleman wanted his ability to measure distances between the balls and the goal to be precise and unquestioned, so he removed his with which he made the measurements. Much amusement was had, as Cokesbury would say, watching this fellow play and make his measurements while at the same time trying to keep his pants up. Make sure to include such guests among those playing quoits, to keep the others chuckling.

Next we move on to a game that will absolutely stun your guests into wanting it to pass quickly, yet enthrall those of an anal retentive bent who are able to not only grasp the game’s core but also enthusiastically wish for it to continue round after round because they’re so damn good at it.

Excuse Me. The leader asks the first player a question which demands an excuse. The excuse must be given in words beginning with the player’s initials. As an illustration – the leader might ask, “Where were you last night?” The player, whose initials are IMC, replies, “Excuse me, I was ironing my clothes.” The leader asks another player whose initials are AMC, “Where were you yesterday?” He replies: “Excuse me, I was airing my cat.” And so eth leader goes around the circle. Anyone making a mistake must take the leader’s place and ask the questions.

Why aren’t you playing?

Excuse me, boring jerk dementor.

Now on to a game that could result in nuclear-explosion level double-entendres, which should be kept until the end of the party so the guests will remember it the most and forget how boring the rest of the evening was.

Guessing Words Representing Things Done on A Ship. In this game one player is sent out of the room. The other player agree upon some word ending in "ing” which represents something done on board a ship, such as sleeping, eating, talking, sailing, commanding, laughing, scrubbing, cooking, washing, bathing, shaving, playing, etc. When the player comes back into the room, he may ask questions about his word, for example, “Where is it done?” “How often is it done?” “When did you last do it?” “Is it done in the kitchen?” etc. When the person who has been sent out guesses the word, the one who gave it away must next go out and so the game continues.

The more juvenile members of your guest roll ought to be able to keep this one going for hours.

That’s it, aside from refreshments, which should be “canned goods, such as might be salvaged from a wreck. For example, each one, or each couple, might be given a small can of sardines with opener, a box of soda crackers, a bottle of soda water, a jar of pickles or olives Another suggestion would be to serve canned baked beans, buns, pickles, and coffee in tin cups.” Remember to have your guests sing or hum the Gilligan’s Island theme as they eat, to add to the authenticity.



Bon Voyage. And bon appétit. This might be a good time to get rid of the canned hominy and beets you have in your pantry. Remember, shipwrecked people will eat anything. Just ask Gilligan. Tune in next week for the Bride and Groom Party, which Cokesbury describes as “very clever,” a sure sign of hilarity.