R.I.P.

It’s not often that the death of a public figure really hits me. I remember where I was when I heard about River Phoenix, and Kurt Cobain (the bathroom, both times). And of course Princess Diana (at a picnic at Brisbane's Southbank). Somehow, when it’s an Australian, it hits harder. This morning I received an email from my mother saying that Steve Irwin died today.

Steve found fame as the Crocodile Hunter, in the television series of the same name, and ran Australia Zoo on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast, where the poet and I shared an enormous ‘Crikey’ sundae and patted wallabies three years ago

I thought he was great, not afraid to be a bit of a dag (caring more about what he did than how he looked), passionate about the animals he helped, and totally in love with his wife and kids. A really decent guy. And bloody funny on television.

And the irony of the way he died, not wrestling a crocodile or teasing a snake, but a freak accident while snorkelling - he got a bit too close to a normally docile stingray and its barb went straight into his heart. He was apparently taking a break from his own filming to get some footage for his little daughter’s show.

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the kinds of risks he did when he had small children, and maybe he has toned it down since he became a father. That’s his and his wife’s business. He could have retired from the hands-on conservation work and died in a car accident.

Someone else from Brisbane said it all: It's very sad and we are very upset. Australia just lost a bloody good bloke.