Steve & Me

by Terri Irwin

  We had been looking at some land adjoining the zoo and decided to purchase it in order to expand. There was a small house on the new property, nothing too grand, just a modest home built of brick, with three bedrooms and one bathroom. We liked the seclusion of the place most of all. The builder had tucked it in behind a macadamia orchard, but it was still right next door to the zoo. We could be part of the zoo yet apart from it at the same time. Perfect.

  “Make this house exactly the way you want it,” Steve told me. “This is going to be our home.”

  He dedicated himself to getting us moved in. I knew this would be our last stop. We wouldn’t be moving again. We laid new carpet and linoleum and installed reverse-cycle air-conditioning and heat. Ah, the luxury of having a climate-controlled house. I installed stained-glass windows in the bathroom with wildlife-themed panes, featuring a jabiru, a crocodile, and a big goanna. We also used wildlife tiles throughout, of dingoes, whales, and kangaroos. We made the house our own.

  We worked on the exterior grounds as well. Steve transplanted palm trees from his parents’ place on the Queensland coast and erected fences for privacy. He designed a circular driveway. As he laid the concrete, he put his own footprints and handprints in the wet cement. Then he ran into the house to fetch Bindi and me.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s all do it.” We grabbed Sui, too, and put her paw prints in, and then did Bindi, who was just eight months old. It took a couple of tries, but we got her handprints and her footprints as well, and then my own. We stood back and admired the time capsule we had created.

  That afternoon the rains came. The Sunshine Coast is usually bright and dry, but when it rains, the heavens open. We worried about all the concrete we had worked on getting pitted and ruined.

  “Get something,” Steve shouted, scrambling to gather up his tools. I ran into the house. I couldn’t find a plastic drop cloth quickly enough, so I grabbed one of my best sheets off the bed. As I watched the linen turn muddy and gray in the rain, I consoled myself. In the future I won’t care that I ruined the sheet, I thought. I’ll just be thankful that I preserved our footprints and handprints.

  “It’s our cave,” Steve said of our new home. We never entertained. The zoo was our social place. Living so close by, we could have easily gotten overwhelmed, so we made it a practice never to have people over. It wasn’t unfriendliness, it was simple self-preservation. Our brick residence was for our family: Steve and me, Bindi, Sui, and Shasta.

  Almost as soon as we got our baby home, we packed her up to leave. Bindi was six days old when she embarked on her first film shoot (actually, her second, if you count filming her birth). Steve, Bindi, and I headed off for the United States, with a stop first at Australia’s Double Island to film turtles.

  We drove through the Double Island sand dunes, spending a day filming on the area’s spectacular beaches. Bindi did marvelously. Some of the four-wheel driving was a bit rough, so I would lean over her capsule in the back of the four-wheel drive, helping to hold her head, so that the bouncing of the truck wouldn’t jostle her around too much.

  Once we arrived on location, she was absolutely content. Fraser, one of the assistants on the shoot, stayed with Bindi while Steve and I filmed. Then we’d walk around behind the camera to hug and kiss her, and I could feed her. She didn’t squeak or squawk. I swear she seemed to keep quiet when John called out “Rolling!”

  It felt fantastic to be back filming again, and it made me realize how much I missed it. The crew represented our extended family. I never once caught a feeling of annoyance or impatience at the prospect of having a six-day-old baby on set. To the contrary, the atmosphere was one of joy. I can mark precisely Bindi Irwin’s introduction to the wonderful world of wildlife documentary filming: Thursday, July 30, 1998, in the spectacular subtropics of the Queensland coast, where the brilliant white sand meets the turquoise water. This is where the sea turtles navigate the rolling surf each year to come ashore and lay their eggs.

  Next stop: America, baby on board. Bindi was so tiny she fit on an airline pillow. Steve watched over her almost obsessively, fussing with her and guarding to see if anything would fall out of the overhead bins whenever they were opened. Such a protective daddy.

  Our first shoot in California focused on rattlesnakes and spiders. We got a cute photo of baby Bindi with a little hat on and a brown tarantula on her head. In Texas she got to meet toads and Trans-Pecos rat snakes. Steve found two stunning specimens of the nonvenomous snakes in an abandoned house. I watched as two-week-old Bindi reacted to their presence. She gazed up at the snakes and her small, shaky arms reached out toward them.

  I laughed with delight at her eagerness. Steve looked over at me, as if to say, See? Our own little wildlife warrior!

  In Florida we got to hang out with some of America’s finest at Eglin Air Force Base. The army Rangers there had been clearing a section of bush for doing operations and had encountered a huge eastern diamondback rattlesnake. Diamondbacks grow to be the largest rattlers anyway, but this one was big for another reason: She was pregnant. Not long after the Rangers’ reptile handlers had transported her back to a holding facility, she gave birth.

  We watched as the newborn rattlers worked their way out, lay still for a short moment, and then immediately began striking at everything and anything nearby. Although it was a great defense mechanism, in case a predator was about to eat them, it appeared pretty comical. Bite, bite, bite, strike, strike, strike. Then they would curl up and hide for a while. Soon enough it was back on the offensive: bite, strike, bite. They were all fang, and trying to look tough. An interesting way to greet the world.

  Steve and I scooped up the baby rattlesnakes and held them until they went through their strike phase. We made sure to set them down before they went back to their frenzied biting.

  “What happens if you’re bitten by a venomous snake while you are breastfeeding?” Steve asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I’d probably have to stop breastfeeding, right?”

  “Just be sure not to get bitten,” Steve said.

  “Deal,” I said. I scooped up a little wet rattler, talked to the camera, then set the snake back down. Boing, boing, boing went the baby rattler, jumping madly around, trying to bite everything. Even the Rangers laughed.

  Once the Rangers had completed their training mission, all the dangerous wildlife they collected (including the rattlers) would go right back where they came from. We were very proud to have worked with some of America’s heroes.

  Steve was in his element during the Florida shoot. He spotted a coral snake at Eglin, and another huge diamondback. It was stinking hot, like most summers in the southeast. Bindi spent a lot of her time sitting in the air-conditioned vehicle, while one of the crew stayed with her. I would move far enough away so that the camera’s microphone couldn’t pick up the sound of the truck running, film like mad, and then run back to be with her.

  Bindi always enjoyed being close to Steve. He seemed to both excite her and keep her calm at the same time. He showed her everything that entered his world, all the wildlife, the landscapes, and the people. Even at only a few weeks old, Bindi turned her head when Steve walked past her room. I don’t think she could even see him, but she smelled or somehow sensed his presence. Then she fussed until he came and picked her up.

  The bond between father and daughter continued to grow stronger.

  As much as he influenced her, Bindi changed Steve, too. After our Florida trip, Bindi and I went home, while Steve flew off to the Indonesian island of Sumatra. We couldn’t accompany him because of the malaria risk, so we kept the home fires burning instead. At one point, Steve was filming with orangutans when his newfound fatherhood came in handy.

  A local park ranger who had worked with the national park’s orangutans for twenty-five years accompanied Steve into the rain forest, where they encountered a mother and baby orangutan. The rangers keep a close eye on the orangutans to prevent poaching, and the ranger recogniz
ed a lot of the animals by sight.

  “She reminds me of Bindi,” Steve exclaimed, seeing the infant ape. It was a mischievous, happy baby, clinging to her mother way up in the top branches of a tree.

  “This will be great to film,” Steve said. “I’ll climb into the tree, and then you can get me and the orangutans in the same shot.”

  The ranger waved his hands, heading Steve off. “You absolutely can’t do that,” the ranger said. “The mother orangutans are extremely protective. If you make a move anywhere near that tree, she’ll come down and pull your arms off.”

  Steve paused to listen.

  “They are very strong,” the ranger said. “She won’t tolerate you in her tree.”

  “I won’t climb very close to her,” Steve said. “I’ll just go a little way up. Then the camera can shoot up at me and get her in the background.”

  The ranger looked doubtful. “Okay, Steve,” he said. “But I promise you, she will come down out of that tree and pull your head off.”

  “Don’t worry, mate,” Steve said confidently, “she’ll be right.”

  He climbed into the tree. Down came the mother, just as the ranger had predicted. Tugging, pulling, and dragging her baby along behind her, she deftly made her way right over to Steve. He didn’t move. He sat on his tree limb and watched her come toward him.

  The crew filmed it all, and it became one of the most incredible shots in documentary filmmaking. Mama came close to Steve. She swung onto the same tree limb. Then she edged her way over until she sat right beside him. Everyone on the crew was nervous, except for Steve.

  Mama put her arm around Steve’s shoulders. I guess the ranger was right, Steve thought, wondering if he would be armless or headless in the very immediate future. While hanging on to her baby, Mama pulled Steve in tight with her other arm, looked him square in the face, and…started making kissy faces at him.

  The whole crew busted up laughing as Mama puckered up her lips and looked lovingly into Steve’s eyes.

  “You’ve got a beautiful little baby, sweetheart,” Steve said softly. The baby scrambled up the limb away from them, and without taking her eyes off Steve, the mother reached over, grabbed her baby, and dragged the tot back down.

  “You’re a good mum,” Steve cooed. “You take good care of that little bib-bib.”

  “I have never seen anything like that,” the park ranger said later. I had to believe that the encounter was further evidence of the uncanny connection Steve had with the wildlife he loved so much, as well as one proud parent recognizing another.

  One day in Sumatra, Steve was climbing into the forest canopy alongside a family of orangutans when he fell. A four-inch spike of bamboo jammed into the back of his leg. As always, he was loath to go to the hospital and successfully cut the spike of bamboo out of his own leg himself.

  Ever since I’d met him, Steve had refused to let me dress or have anything to do with any of his wounds. He didn’t even like to talk about his injuries. I think this was a legacy from his years alone in the bush. He had his own approach to being injured, and he called it “the goanna theory.”

  “Sometimes you’ll see a goanna that’s been hurt,” he said. “He may have been hit by a car and had a leg torn off. Maybe he’s missing a chunk of his tail. Does he walk around feeling sorry for himself? No. He goes about his business, hunting for food, looking for mates, climbing trees, and doing the best that he can.”

  That’s the goanna theory. Steve would take into consideration how debilitating the specific wound was, but then he would carry on. A bamboo spike in the back of his leg? Well, it hurt. But his leg still worked. He continued filming.

  Meanwhile, my life back at home was made much easier with the help of Steve’s sister Joy and her husband, Frank Muscillo. Tall and dark-haired, with an open, friendly face, Frank began at the zoo by working half days, helping me with payroll and paperwork. If it wasn’t for Frank coming to the rescue during that period when I was trying to juggle work with a new baby, I don’t know what I would have done.

  Frank was family. I felt I could trust him implicitly with any money matters. He was brilliant at bookkeeping, an exceptional businessman, and a dad as well. With two kids of his own, he understood that no matter how busy work got, family came first. Eventually he became general manager of the zoo, and a vital component to its success.

  Bindi, meanwhile, was blossoming. At just six weeks old, she held her head up and reached for objects. She even tried to scoot around a bit. She pushed with her little legs and worked her way across the bed. When Steve came home from Sumatra, it was obvious how much he had missed his little girl. I had to smile when Steve sat down on the couch with Bindi, telling her of his adventures moment by moment, while she stared intently at him, trying desperately to puzzle out his words.

  “She really did miss you,” I said.

  “No, she didn’t,” Steve scoffed. Then he added, his face brightening hopefully, “How could you tell?”

  I knew the truth. Even as a newborn, Bindi behaved differently when Steve was around. When she saw Steve come home after one of his trips, she got excited and happy and would literally quiver with joy.

  Steve shared everything with her. He took her around the zoo and introduced her to the wildlife. One day he took her into the enclosure with Agro, one of our biggest crocodiles. A school group had come to the zoo, and they assembled in their neatly pressed uniforms around the enclosure. Bindi squealed with delight and looked intently at Agro. That afternoon Steve did the crocodile demonstration with his daughter cradled in his arms. The school-group visitors looked impressed and perhaps a bit jealous.

  After the croc show, I noticed Bindi was as alert as I had ever seen her. She was so thrilled. Joining her daddy for the croc demo became something she looked forward to. Sometimes Bindi and I would sit in the enclosure to watch Steve with the crocodiles, and she would cry until he picked her up so she could be part of the action. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I thought.

  On Bindi’s first birthday in July 1999, we began a tradition of our own. We threw open the doors of the zoo with free admission to all children. We offered free birthday cake and invited cockatoos, camels, snakes, and lizards to party with us. It poured rain all day, but it didn’t matter. Steve placed a giant birthday cake in front of his daughter. It could have served one hundred people, and we’d ordered up several of them for the celebration.

  Bindi had never had sugar before, or any kind of dessert or lolly. She carefully took a frosting flower off the top and tasted it. Puzzle ment and then joy transformed her face. She dove in headfirst. Cheers and laughter erupted from the crowd of three hundred, all of whom had shown up to celebrate.

  Steve’s mother, Lyn, looked on that day with a proud smile. I thought back to what it must have been like when Lyn first started the zoo. It was just a small wildlife park, with admission only forty cents for adults and twenty cents for kids. Now it was an expanding enterprise, part of an ambitious conservation effort and a complement to our wildlife documentaries. But her son’s favorite job was still the humble one of being Dad. I could read on Lyn’s face how important it was to her that Steve had started a family. And Bindi had a great day wearing a small pink sweater that her gran had made for her.

  That night Bindi, Steve, and I all curled up in bed together. “As long as we’re together,” Steve said, “everything will be just fine.”

  It was spooky, and I didn’t want to think about it, but it did indeed seem that Steve got into trouble more when he was off on his own. Around that time, on a shoot in Africa with the bushmen of the Kalahari Desert, Steve slipped as he rushed to get a shot of a lizard. He put his hand out to catch himself, and placed it down right in the middle of a euphorbia plant. The bush broke into pieces, and the splinters sank deep into Steve’s hand.

  Kalahari bushmen use the resin of the euphorbia plant to poison-tip their spears. Steve’s arm swelled and turned black. He became feverish and debated whether to go home or to
the hospital. He sought the advice of the bushmen who worked with the poisonous resin regularly.

  “What do you do if you get nailed by this poison?”

  The bushmen smiled broadly. “We die,” they said.

  John filmed every step of the way as the skin of Steve’s arm continued to blacken and he rode out the fever. He worried about the residual effects of gangrene.

  Ultimately, Steve survived, but he felt the effects for weeks afterward. Once again, Steve and I discussed how uneasy we felt when we were apart. Every time we were together on a trip, we knew we’d be okay. When we were apart, though, we shared a disconcerting feeling that was hard to put into words. It made me feel hollow inside.

  The Africa trip had taken Steve away from us for three weeks, and Bindi had changed so much while he was away. We agreed that we would never be apart from Bindi and that at least one of us would always be with her. I just felt bad for Steve that I had been the lucky one for the past three weeks. He missed her so much.

  The next documentary would be different. We were taking a DC-10 all the way across the country, from the east coast to the west. Together we flew into the Red Centre, the interior of the continent and the location of Ayers Rock—one of Australia’s most recognizable icons.

  “Have a look at it,” Steve said when we arrived. “It’s the heart of Australia.”

  I could see why. A huge red mountain rose up out of the flat, sandy landscape. The rock appeared out of place in the great expanse of the desert. The Aborigines knew it as Uluru, and they preferred that tourists did not clamber over their sacred site.

  We respectfully filmed only the areas we were allowed to access with the local Aborigines’ blessing. As we approached the rock, Steve saw a lizard nearby. He turned to the camera to talk about it. I was concentrating on Steve, Steve was concentrating on the lizard, and John was filming. Bindi was with us, and she could barely take two steps on her own at this point, so I knew I could afford to watch Steve.