CRIKEY.

The Croc Hunter died today. And not by doing something particularly stupid. He was done in by a stingray. People never die from stingrays. But the Aussie national mascot for derring do was killed by a very precise one. It got him smack in the chest with its poisonous barb and put a hole in his heart.

Say what you will about his invincibility complex or his foolish risks, and even I agree that there’s no good reason to hold your baby in one hand while feeding crocodiles with the other, but we have a pretty big crush on the guy around here.

Much earlier in my days with Jason, my parents came out to visit us in Seattle, and we did the usual tourist things like going on the Underground tour and taking each other’s pictures beside really huge trees in the rainforest on the Olympic Peninsula. We even ran wildly down the trail to catch the last bits of sunset on the farthest west point in the lower forty-eight of our United States. But what was the best part of that trip? What made my parents fall for my future husband? Well, I’ll tell you.

On the way back from the edge of the peninsula, after dark, Jason asked me to pull over by the side of the good ole’ Strait of Juan de Fuca. Then he started pulling out flashlights and headlamps (he’d planned this, apparently). Mom and dad (and probably me) looked a bit wary and not quite sure what was going on. “We’re gonna go tide pool hunting!” shouted a rather more jovial than usual Jason. And off he dashed to the beach. We followed with our gingerly stepping selves and eventually got sucked into the enthusiasm, running around like little kids looking for starfish and shrimp and scurrying over to see what latest thing J. had found to make him shout out, “Hey, come look at this_______!” and proceed to tell us about its feeding habits and its nesting tendencies and whatever.

It was the best. Exhilarating and slightly eerie and really lots of giggly fun. My mom told her office mates and mentioned it during my phone calls for weeks after they went home.

At some point later, Jason confessed to me that he’d basically tried to channel Croc Hunter to get the energy and enthusiasm right and make us all willing to follow along and learn about sea worms. And when he told me, it made perfect sense. He had done a perfect Steve Irwin impression—without the Australian accent, of course. (Though I will say that his knowledge of tidepool life was all his own, remembered from the high school marine biology class of Mr. MacGowan, by all reports another zoologist of boisterous temperament and high eagerness.)

So, you see, I’ve got a soft spot for the Croc Hunter for helping out there. And I’m sad to see him go.