Steve Irwin: Adventurer, Environmentalist, Devoted Husband and Father
Terri Irwin recounts the adventures she shared with the love of her life.
Oct. 31, 2007 — -- "Steve and Me" is a window into the world of a man loved by millions, written by the woman who knew and loved him best.
Read an excerpt of "Steve and Me" below.
The name of the zoo was the Queensland Reptile and Fauna Park. As I crossed the parking area, I prepared myself for disappointment. I am going to see a collection of snakes, lizards, and miserable creatures in jars, feel terribly sorry for them, and leave.
It was October, 1991. I was Terri Raines, a 27-year-old Oregon girl in Australia on an unlikely quest to find homes for rescued American cougars. A reptile park wasn't going to be interested in a big cat. I headed through the pleasant spring heat toward the park thinking pessimistic thoughts. This is going to be a big waste of time. But the prospect of seeing new species of wildlife drew me in.
I walked through the modest entrance, only to be shocked at what I found on the other side: the most beautiful, immaculately kept gardens I had ever encountered. Peacocks strutted around, kangaroos and wallabies roamed freely, and palm trees lined all the walkways. It was like a little piece of Eden.
After I paid my admission fee, I saw that the reptile enclosures were kept perfectly clean -- the snakes glistened. I kept rescued animals myself at home. I knew zoos, and I knew the variety of nightmare they can fall into. But I saw not a sign of external parasites on these animals, no old food rotting in the cages, no feces or shedded skin left unattended.
So I enjoyed myself. I toured around, learned about the snakes and fed the kangaroos. It was a brilliant sunlit day.
"There will be a show at the crocodile enclosures in five minutes," a voice announced on the PA system. "Five minutes."
That sounded good to me.
I noticed the crocodiles before I noticed the man. There was a whole line of crocodilians: alligators, fresh-water crocodiles and one big salty. Amazing, modern-day dinosaurs. I didn't know much about them, but I knew that they had existed unchanged for millions of years. They were a message from our past, from the dawn of time, among the most ancient creatures on the planet.
Then I saw the man. A tall, solid twenty-something (he appeared younger than he was, and had actually turned twenty-nine that February), dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts, barefoot, with blond flyaway hair underneath a big Akubra hat and a black-banded wristwatch on his left wrist. Even though he was big and muscular, there was something kind and approachable about him, too.
I stood among the fifteen or twenty other park visitors and listened to him talk.
"They can live as long or even longer than us," he said, walking casually past the big saltwater croc's pond.
"They can hold their breath underwater for hours."
He approached the water's edge with a piece of meat. The crocodile lunged out of the water and snapped the meat from his hand. "This male croc is territorial," he explained, "and females become really aggressive when they lay eggs in a nest." He knelt beside the croc that had just tried to nail him. "Crocodiles are such good mothers."
Every inch of this man, every movement and word exuded his passion for the crocodilians he passed among. I couldn't help but notice that he never tried to big note himself. He was there to make sure his audience admired the crocs, not himself.
I recognized his passion, because I felt some of it myself. I spoke the same way about cougars as this Australian zookeeper spoke about crocs. When I heard there would be a special guided tour of the crocodile environmental park, I was first in line for a ticket. I had to hear more. This man was on fire with enthusiasm, and I felt I really connected with him, like I was meeting a kindred spirit.
Some of the topics Steve talked about that day were wonderful and new. I learned about the romantic life of crocodiles. There are courting rituals between male and female, and the male crocodiles are very gentle as they nudge up and down alongside the female, waiting until she is receptive. I never imagined that these dinosaur-looking creatures could be loving, but he explained that they were quite passionate lovers, and seemed to develop real affection for each other.
Affection for each other, sure, but not for Steve. I watched the still, dark, murky water erupt with an enormous ton of salt-water crocodile. The croc nearly snapped the buttons off Steve's shirt as he neatly deposited a piece of meat into its mouth. The reverberation of the jaws coming back together sounded like a rifle report.
From where I stood on the other side of the fence, I could barely breathe. I didn't know how he did it.Other topics were more familiar. "Sometimes just seeing a croc in the wild can scare the daylights out of people," he said, passing among the rows of sub-adult crocodiles. "But if you know to follow some simple rules, these little tackers pose no threat at all to human life."
It was a situation that I'd encountered many times in the United States with predatory animals. People would frequent a boat ramp, for example. They'd come in with their catch and fillet it right at the dock, tossing the fish bones and scraps into the water. In the States, this might attract black bears, posing a potential problem for tourists. In Australia, the same practice brought the crocs into contact with humans.
"If we get a report about a particularly naughty little crocodile bothering people," Steve explained, "I go out with my dog, Sui, in a dinghy. We'll capture the croc so it won't get shot."
Then he described what he meant by "capture." As he told the story I was totally captivated, and so were the other zoo visitors. Maybe it was because Steve was detailing the most astonishing set of actions any of us had ever heard about, accomplished by a man who lived to tell the tale.
"If the croc is young, six feet long, or smaller," he said, "I'll catch it by hand."
By hand. I'd had to capture all kinds of wildlife in Oregon, but never anything as dangerous as a six-foot long saltwater crocodile…in the water…in the dark…by hand.
"We go out at night with a million candle power spotlight, shining bright across the water," he said. "That way, I can pick up the eye-shine of the crocodile. Their eyes glow bright red, right at the surface of the water. The croc thinks he's camouflaged by the darkness. He doesn't understand that my spotlight is revealing his location."
Idling the dinghy, bringing it quietly in closer and closer to the croc, Steve would finally make his move. He'd creep to the front of the boat and hold the spotlight until the last moment.
Then he would leap into the water.
Grabbing the crocodile around the scruff of the neck, he would secure its tail between his legs, and wrap his body around the thrashing creature. Crocodiles are amazingly strong in the water. Even a six-foot-long sub-adult would easily take Steve to the bottom of the river, rolling and fighting, trying to dislodge him by scraping against the rocks and snags at the bottom of the river.
But Steve would hang on. He knew he could push off the bottom, reach the surface for air, flip the crocodile into his dinghy, and pin the snapping animal down.
"Piece of cake," he said.
That was the most incredible story I had ever heard. And Steve was the most incredible man I had ever seen -- My heart was pounding as I drove up the coast again a few days later. There was the familiar little sign, the modest entrance. And here he was again, as large as life -- six feet tall, broad shoulders, a big grin, and a warm and welcome handshake. Our first real touch.
"Well, I'm back," I said lamely.
"Good on you, mate," Steve said. I thought to myself, I've got what on me?
Right away, I was extremely self-conscious about a hurdle I felt that we had to get over. I wasn't entirely sure about Steve's marital status. I looked for a ring, but he didn't wear one. That doesn't mean anything, I told myself. He probably can't wear one because of his work. I think he figured out what I was hedging at as I started asking him questions about his friends and family.
He lived right there at the Zoo, he told me, with his parents and his sister Mandy. His sister Joy was married and had moved away.
I was trying to figure out how to say, "So, do you have a girlfriend?" when suddenly he volunteered the information.
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