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Steve Irwin

Monday, 4 September, 2006

Or as my old roomie Annie would call him, the Aussie moron. This was an unfair assessment, of course. He was a rough and tumble QLD bruce whose quest was to spread his own enchantment and fascination with the natural world with the rest of us. He did so without the pomposity of the PETA crowd, or the inaccessible pretension of the Greenpeace types. He taught by doing. He lived his quest.

In theory “the crocodile hunter” had retired, but he was filming a segment for a sequel series specifically intended for children starring his thirteen-year-old daughter, named for his two most valued companions and assistants who happened to be canine.

He came to a sudden and inevitably poetic end in pursuit of his own most holy quest. While I’m certain he would have preferred this might have happened on a “where are they now” segment some fifty years out, he died (only some twenty hours ago as I write this) in an act of love. Your death should be so noble. And mine.

In my mind he was towed to the surface mouthing the words, “I’ll be right, squire.”

and of course he will be.


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