I took the laptop on vacation, and even as the pounding hurricane remnants sequestered us for the bulk of the weekend, I never felt the urge to plug in.
But now I do, with the passing of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, from a stingray's barb piercing his heart (in case you just left seclusion somewhere).
He always seemed invincible, with reflexes able to dodge surging crocodiles and Australia's stable of extremely venomous snakes. For years, he was a guilty pleasure; scanning the channels, I quickly got sucked into whatever murky stream Irwin traversed in an attempt to rouse up the crocs.
The man knew his animals, yet one still caught up with him. Everyone wants to second-guess what happened to him, but I wasn't there. Maybe once the facts come out, I'll feel differently (appropriately, his death is on film).
He was typically Australian in so many ways - friendly yet rough and gregarious. Someone you'd want to join for an Oil Can if you could keep him from wrestling the reptiles. Even Prime Minister John Howard appeared noticeably shaken when speaking about Irwin's death.
I always imagined Irwin would end up dying in his sleep, like one of those 19th century highwire artists. People like that have a knack for avoiding trouble. Now I just wish I wasn't wrong.
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