Crikey.

Hard to believe.

Unbelievable, in fact.

Steve Irwin, everyone's favorite Aussie, better known as the Crocodile Hunter... gone. Death by 'freak accident', the news says. I'm not buying the 'freak accident' spin for one moment. Couldn't they have come up with a better tribute than that?

He died in a split second's worth of judgement, a hairsbreath moment of decision between man and nature... one I've seen him make on TV time and and time again. I've seen him bitten in the face by a snake, bitten on the arm by a lizard, hold a deadly scorpion in the palm of his hand, twitch his arms and legs out of the danger zone more times than I can count, smiling all the while.

This time, he quite simply didn't flinch fast enough.

The odds of being stung by a stingray while filming a documentary? Small. The odds of being stabbed directly in the heart while swimming over one? Much smaller. The odds of surviving? Infinitesimal.

Considering what Steve Irwin did for a living, it wasn't freakish at all. It was a weird, yet somehow fitting end. After all, how does a living legend want it all to end... wearing boxer shorts in his living room, Fosters in one hand and the remote in the other?

Sad for his family. Heartbreaking to those who will miss his irrepressible sense of fun and daredevil attitude. But not freakish at all. I haven't felt this sad about the death of a total stranger since Princess Diana died. Another good person, a public figure who tried to make a difference, gone before their time.

Crikey.