Steve & Me Page 16

  As Charlie used his powerful tail to propel himself out of the water, he arched his neck and opened his jaws wide, whipping his head back and forth, snapping and gnashing. Steve carefully threw the top-jaw rope, but he didn’t actually want to snag Charlie. Then he would have had to get the rope off without stressing the croc, and that would have been tricky.

  The cameras rolled. Charlie lunged. I cowered. Steve continued to deftly toss the rope. Then, all of a sudden, Charlie swung at the rope instead of Steve, and the rope went right over Charlie’s top jaw. A perfect toss, provided that had been what Steve was trying to do. But it wasn’t. We had a roped croc on our hands that we really didn’t want.

  Steve immediately let the rope go slack. Charlie had it snagged in his teeth. Because of Steve’s quick thinking and prompt maneuvering, the rope came clear. We breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Steve looked up at the cameras. “I think you’ve got it.”

  John agreed. “I think we do, mate.”

  The crew cheered. The shoot lasted several minutes, but in the boat, I wasn’t sure if it had been seconds or hours. Watching Steve work Charlie up close had been amazing—a huge, unpredictable animal with a complicated thought process, able to outwit its prey, an animal that had been on the planet for millions of years, yet Steve knew how to manipulate him and got some fantastic footage.

  To the applause of the crew, Steve got us both out of the boat. He gave me a big hug. He was happy. This was what he loved best, being able to interact and work with wildlife. Never before had anything like it been filmed in any format, much less on thirty-five-millimeter film for a movie theater. We accomplished the shot with the insurance underwriters none the wiser.

  Steve wanted to portray crocs as the powerful apex predators that they were, keeping everyone safe while he did it. Never once did he want it to appear as though he were dominating the crocodile, or showing off by being in close proximity to it. He wished for the crocodile to be the star of the show, not himself.

  I was proud of him that day. The shoot represented Steve Irwin at his best, his true colors, and his desire to make people understand how amazing these animals are, to be witnessed by audiences in movie theaters all over the world. We filmed many more sequences with crocs, and each time Steve performed professionally and perfected the shots. He was definitely in his element.

  With the live-croc footage behind us, the insurance people came on board, and we were finally able to sign a contract with MGM. We were to start filming in earnest. First stop: the Simpson Desert, with perentie lizards and fierce snakes.

  The day before we headed out was an unusually warm day. Shasta had a hard time of it. Bindi wrapped her in wet towels to help her cool off. Every few minutes she would raise her head and bark a bit.

  The last couple of years, Shasta’s back had been out so bad that I would wheelbarrow her around. She always liked sleeping in the car. I think it made her excited to be going on a trip. That night she seemed so restless that I put her in the car and kissed her good night. I knew she’d be happiest there.

  In the morning, we were off to our first official day of filming the movie. Steve put the last few things together in the zoo. I went out to get Shasta organized for staying with a friend. She was still asleep.

  “Good morning, lazybones,” I said. I bent down to give her a kiss on the forehead. Then I realized she wasn’t there. Sometime during the night, Shasta had died. She was seventeen and a half years old, the only dog I ever had. She went through nine months of quarantine to join me in Australia. She had been a loyal friend and an excellent guard dog.

  Bindi and I said good-bye to Shasta together. We discussed the circle of life and collected a few of Shasta’s favorite things. She would be buried with her favorite blanket. I knew I’d never have another dog. Now Sui was the only dog in the family.

  That Thanksgiving, while we were still in production with our own movie, Steve filmed a cameo appearance in Eddie Murphy’s movie Dr. Dolittle 2.

  It was a fun scene. Steve plays himself, and Eddie plays Dolittle. Although it was shot in Los Angeles, supposedly the two of them are in the bush, and Steve is explaining how to wrangle a gator.

  “I am here with Dr. Dolittle, who can actually talk with animals,” Steve says. “We’re here about to capture this alligator right behind us. The way to hang on to him is to grab him like this….”

  Meanwhile, though, the alligator has ideas of his own. In an outrageous Aussie accent, he clues Eddie in: “What I’m doing is letting Steve think I don’t hear him. When he comes for me, I’m gonna turn around, and Bob’s your uncle, snap his arm off!”

  “Steve,” Eddie says, “I think he knows we’re here.”

  “Quiet,” says Steve. “I don’t want to spoil the element of surprise.”

  He leaps at the alligator, who snaps him up into its jaws. “Crikey!” Steve yells. “Me arm!”

  Steve took people at their own merits. He was not overwhelmed or overly impressed by anybody for their star quality. It didn’t matter if it was the publican in Windorah or a movie star in Los Angeles. He reacted to people as individuals.

  “I liked Eddie,” he said, when I asked him how the shoot went. “He’s a talented man, very professional, and easy to work with.”

  But after spending a few days in Eddie Murphy’s world, Steve pondered how the man coped with being constantly in the limelight. It was unending for Murphy. People wanted a piece of him all the time—a photograph, an autograph, a few words. Steve wondered how someone could lead a life like that. With more and more viewers in the States tuning in to Animal Planet, he was about to find out.

  I think that’s why Steve felt so grounded living in Australia. The population of the country is twenty million, spread over an area the size of the United States. There are still plenty of places in the vast Australian wilderness where he could get away from it all, places where he could drive for days without seeing another person. Although Steve understood the importance of working and filming in America, he always swore he would never leave his home in Australia.

  Ironically enough, when we returned to the zoo, the Dr. Dolittle cameo almost came true. We had to transfer a big female crocodile named Toolakea to another enclosure. Steve geared up for the move as he always did.

  “Don’t think about catching Toolakea,” he instructed his crew, me included, before we ever got near to the enclosure. “If you’re concentrating on catching her, she’ll know it. We’ll never get a top-jaw rope on. Crocs know when they’re being hunted.”

  For millions of years, wild animals have evolved to use every sense to tune into the world around them. Steve understood that their survival depended on it. So as I approached the enclosure, I thought of mowing the lawn, or doing the croc show, or picking hibiscus flowers to feed the lizards. Anything but catching Toolakea.

  It went like clockwork. Steve top-jaw-roped Toolakea, and we all jumped her. He decided that since she was only a little more than nine feet long, we would be able to just lift her over the fence and carry her to her other enclosure.

  Steve never built his enclosures with gates. He knew that sooner or later, someone could make a mistake and not latch a gate properly. We had to be masters at fence jumping. He picked up Toolakea around her shoulders with her neck held firmly against his upper arm. This would protect his face if she started struggling. The rest of us backed him up and helped to lift Toolakea over the fence.

  All of a sudden she exploded, twisting and writhing in everyone’s arms.

  “Down, down, down,” Steve shouted. That was our signal to pin the crocodile again before picking her up. Not everyone reacted quickly enough. As Steve moved to the ground, the people on the tail were still standing up. That afforded Toolakea the opportunity to twist her head around and grab hold of Steve’s thigh.

  The big female croc sank her teeth deep into his flesh. I never realized it until later. Steve didn’t flinch. He settled the crocodile on the ground, keeping her eyes covered to
quiet her down. We lifted her again. This time she cleared the fence easily. I noticed the blood trickling down Steve’s leg.

  We got to the other enclosure before I asked what had happened, and he showed me. There were a dozen tears in the fabric of his khaki shorts. A half dozen of Toolakea’s teeth had gotten through to his flesh, putting a number of puncture holes in his upper thigh.

  As usual, Steve didn’t bother with the wound. He cleaned it out and carried on, but even after his leg had healed, he couldn’t feel the temperature accurately on his leg. Once, about a month after the incident, I got a drink out of the fridge and rested it on his thigh.

  “I can feel something there,” he said.

  “Hot or cold?” I quizzed.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  The croc-torn khaki shorts he wore that day made an amazing souvenir for a lucky sponsor of the zoo. People who donated a certain amount of money to our conservation efforts received a bonus in return: one of Steve’s uniforms and a photograph of him in it. Steve was very proud to include his khakis with teeth holes in them as the gift for a generous supporter.

  Steve always had a feeling that he wouldn’t live a long life. He would sometimes say that he hoped a croc wouldn’t get him, because he felt it would undo all of his hard work convincing people that crocs are wonderful animals worth protecting. After losing his mother, Steve seemed even more focused on accomplishing as much as possible in the time he had here on earth. He was convinced that when it was his time to go, it would be quick, as his mum had died in the car accident.

  Steve didn’t fear death. Maybe that was part of his secret for being so gifted with wildlife. He had such perfect love for every animal, and especially crocodiles, that there didn’t seem to be any room left over for fear.

  But this didn’t mean that Steve didn’t have his share of close calls.

  One day I was feeding Cookie, Wes was feeding Mary, and our crew member Jan was backing up Wes. Steve talked to the zoo visitors about our big male, Agro, partially submerged in the water near Steve.

  Steve was so intent on getting his message across about crocodiles that he might have been a bit distracted. It had poured rain that day, leaving the grass wet and slippery. Agro took full advantage when Steve’s back was to the water. He powered forward like a missile, out of the water and halfway up the bank. As he came out, Wes yelled.

  Agro had Steve backed against the fence. Steve couldn’t move. I looked across the enclosure and saw the look on Steve’s face—it wasn’t fear, it was resolve. A big male saltwater croc was about to grab him. But for some unknown reason, Agro hesitated for a split second. Maybe he just couldn’t believe his luck. Or he was distracted by Wes, running over to save his best friend.

  Steve darted sideways and ran down the fence line. He was safe. The audience erupted in excited chatter. “Nothing short of a miracle,” a crowd member said about Steve’s escape. Was it? Was it his sixth sense? Was it his mate, Wes?

  That night we lay in bed and I stroked his face, tracing the lines that were starting to form around the corners of his eyes, waiting for his breathing to become more regular as he fell asleep. “I thought for a minute there he had me,” Steve said softly in the dark.

  Steve was never one to panic, and that kind of levelheaded thinking allowed him to return the favor to Wes in a much closer call during cyclone season in March 2001. All day a massive low-pressure system lay off the coast of Queensland. The daylight took on a yellowish cast. By four o’clock that afternoon, the rain started.

  Steve contacted all the staff. He told anyone who was not working outside with the animals to go home, including the accounts division, marketing staff, and web team. At four fifteen, Steve announced an official storm watch, which meant that all staff who remained needed to prepare for the potential of a flood.

  During a storm, we needed to check fences. As water flowed through the enclosures at the zoo, it would push debris up against the fences, putting pressure on them that they were not designed to resist. With enough pressure from floodwaters, the fences would give, releasing the crocs and other animals from their enclosures.

  By four thirty, Steve announced that the situation had escalated from “storm watch” to “cyclone watch.” Bindi had been walking by my side. She wasn’t quite three years old, and by now the floodwaters were already up to her chest. I carried her back to the compound.

  “I’ll be right back!” I shouted at Steve. He didn’t hear me. The winds howled, and a deluge broke from the sky.

  Our house was located on high ground. I got Bindi back home safely with her nanny, Thelma, and then I rushed back into the zoo.

  All the water courses in the zoo were designed with storm grates. Steve had opened them to let the water through. Now it was time to divide the staff into teams to quickly remove debris from the bulging fences.

  Animals in areas where the flooding was severe had to be moved. We shuffled the kangaroos to high ground and put the dingoes in special night quarters. We checked Harriet and the other giant tortoises to make sure they had lumbered up to the top part of their enclosures, out of the rushing water.

  Twilight was upon us. Soon it would be dark, making everything we did twice as difficult. The rain came down like a waterfall, and the winds were absolutely deafening.

  As darkness descended upon the zoo, we found it impossible to keep our equipment dry. The first to fail were the radios. Our walkie-talkies were now useless. We broke into smaller groups. The next to go were the torches. Even lights that were designed for use in water were succumbing to the rain. I saw some of our staff wearing head torches that sputtered and blinked off.

  I teamed up with Rebecca, one of the staff from education who had volunteered to stay and help. We cleared debris from the dingo enclosure. Although the dingoes were safely locked in their warm and dry night quarters, we wanted to make sure that their fence line didn’t buckle and need repair the next day.

  We posted ourselves along the fence. Wading through waist-deep rushing water, we cleared armloads of leaves, sticks, and debris. Some of the ornamental rocks in the enclosure were completely submerged, and it became hard to keep our bearings with deep water covering everything.

  Our efforts were fine for the enclosures that were empty or had harmless native wildlife in them such as the kangaroos. But there were several enclosures where it was a matter of security not to let the fences buckle. The number one priority were the croc enclosures. If a fence buckled and a crocodile floated loose, everyone working in the zoo would be in jeopardy.

  The storm wasn’t an entirely new situation. The zoo flooded almost every year. But this storm was horrendous. The chaos was illuminated by lightning flashes, as well as the spotlights from vehicles the staff had parked nearby, trying to keep the work areas visible.

  The enclosure next to the dingoes held Graham the crocodile. Wes, Steve, and other staff battled the flood in Graham’s home. One man stood on the fence to spot the croc. He had to shout to Wes and Steve as they cleared the fence line inside the enclosure in waist-deep, dark waters. With the vehicle spotlights casting weird shadows, he had to scope out the murky water and try to discern the crocodile from among the floating bits of debris.

  Once the backup man had the crocodile pegged, he kept a close eye on him. If Graham submerged, Wes and Steve had to be warned immediately. The spotter worked hard to keep a bead on Graham. Steve and Wes were synchronized with their every move. They had worked together like this for years. They didn’t even have to speak to each other to communicate.

  There was no room for error as the amount of time spent in Graham’s enclosure was kept to a minimum. They jumped into the enclosure, cleared one, two, three armloads of debris, then jumped back out and re-evaluated the situation.

  Graham’s fence line had a bow in it, but it wasn’t in any danger of buckling. Steve and Wes were doing a good job, and there was no need for me to be there with them. It was more urgent for me to keep the dingo fence line intact next
door.

  Graham’s female, named Bindi, was nesting, and this added another dangerous dimension to the job, since Graham was feeling particularly protective. The men were also keenly aware that nighttime meant croc time—and Graham would be stalking them with real intent.

  They reached down for their three armloads of debris. Steve scooped up his first load, flung it out, and gathered his second. Suddenly, Wes slammed into the fence with such force that his body was driven in an arc right over the top of Steve.

  It only took a split second for Steve to realize what had happened. As Wes had bent over to reach for an armload of debris, he had been hit from behind by more than twelve feet of reptile, weighing close to nine hundred pounds.

  Graham grabbed Wes, his top teeth sinking into Wes’s bum, his bottom teeth hooking into the back of Wes’s thigh, just above his knee. The croc then closed his mouth, exerting that amazing three thousand pounds per square inch of jaw pressure, pulling and tearing tissue as he did.

  The croc hit violently. Wes instinctively twisted away and rolled free of Graham’s jaws, but two fist-sized chunks were torn from his backside. The croc instantly swung in for another grab. Wes pushed the lunging croc’s head away, but not before Graham’s teeth crushed through his finger. They crashed back down into the water. Wes screamed out when he was grabbed, but no one could hear him because of the roar of the storm.

  In almost total darkness, Steve seized a pick handle that rested near the fence. He turned toward the croc as Graham was lining Wes up for another bite. Wes was on his side now, in water that was about three feet deep. He could see the crocodile in the lights of a Ute spotlight that shone over the murk—the dark outline of the osteodermal plates along the crocodile’s back.