Derek Rielly's profile on Matt Hoy ran in the December 1991 issue of Australia's Surfing Life magazine.

Matt Hoy is standing stripped to the waist, legs spread, furiously shaking his head and powering an imaginary guitar in front of his friend's stereo. "Metallica are FILTH," he shrieks above the din before thirstily sucking from a large bottle of VB. Yet to turn 21, Matt is living the ultimate grommet fantasy. Hailed as one of the finest raw talents in the sport, he's paid a respectable wage to travel the world surfing, with plenty of money left over to fuel the insistent partying, and there's no one to stop him. "Fuck, I'm stoked," he burps between songs. "You'd have to be."

A gorgeous four-foot south swell is meandering across a series of well-formed banks in front of Matt's Merewether home. Three surf photographers are staring impatiently as the weekend crowd. "Where's Hoyo?" they chorus as I pull up to check the surf. "Asleep," I mumble, still quivering from the previous evening's alcohol abuse. Local photog Peter 'Bosko' Boskovic is quickly dispatched to bring the wonderboy to the beach. Five minutes later he returns with the terrible news that Matt refuses to get up. "He'd be going 

 out there," says one, eyeing a pleasant right-hander getting beaten to death by four bodyboarders. "Where's Luke and Nick then?" another hisses, shaking his head ruefully.

Indeed. Not 12 months ago, most photographers would be writhing with pleasure at the chance to whip off a few snaps of Luke Egan or Nick Wood. Now, after devastating performances at Jeffreys Bay, a third at Bells, and a memorable win in the Billabong Pro Junior, Matt Hoy has become the new Great Australian Hope—the surfer capable of matching raw power with the new Americans' impressive repertoires. Matt had spoken of the American push the previous afternoon with characteristic irreverence. "Australians surf heaps better than Americans," he told me. "Australians just love to get a big face and go GARRRRWWWWWW. While they [the Americans] are sorta into tail-sliding, aerials, shit like that. I'd rather do a big cutty or get a barrel," he declared. Then a modest chuckle. "I usually can't do anything else anyway."

The Jeffreys Bay Dream Sequence last August provided the perfect forum for Matt's fast, powerful, minimalist style. Contest director and career surfing critic Derek Hynd called Matt "the best natural footer by a mile. Rooster tails 20 feet straight up. Ultra-speed roundhouse cutbacks that had never before been seen," he trumpeted. A poster of Matt wrenching a cutback during the contest appeared in the December issue of 

 magazine. "The cutback of the year so far," it blared.

Californian Brad Gerlach, who's own surfing has been raising more than the odd brow this year, lavishes praise on the blocky 20-year-old. " I think Matt is one of the hottest guys I've ever seen surf," says Gerr. " I think he's better than me. He's killing it."

Matt Hoy is not a hard guy to figure out. His speech is peppered with "fuck" and "shit," a legacy of growing up in the tough suburban tangle of Newcastle. He harbors a deep loyalty to both his mates and his hometown ("It has the best waves—better than anywhere," he says). Friends speak of Matt glowingly. "He's classic," says Jamie 'JJ' Watsford. "He always helps everyone out when he's home." His generosity is obvious. His Mum and stepdad wear contest T-shirts while his friends receive Team O'Neill wetsuits, clothes, and more. "Nice board," I had said to Matt's good friend Andrew Clark, fingering a sleek 6'4" Greg Webber had shaped for Matt. "Matt's never even surfed it," he'd said with a strange delight. "I just borrowed it and never gave it back."

Matt and his family live in a trendy renovated 1930s house overlooking the point at Merewether. Matt's bedroom is sparsely furnished—a stack of boards piled in one corner and a huge bed littered with crumpled notes, letters, a passport, and other assorted traveling paraphernalia. The only concession to decoration is a poster of English band The Cult featuring a subdued Ian Astbury leering menacingly over the room. A cheap electric guitar and amp sit in the hallway, unplayed and out of tune. "I'd love to be able to play the guitar good," he says "I can't imagine what it's like being in a band and playing in front of 40,000 people, everyone screaming and yelling. It must be the best adrenalin rush."

Surfer as rock star. It's an image that has been hoisted upon Matt ever since he grew his hair, developed a taste for metal, and took to wearing black clothes. You can't help thinking Matt feels almost compelled to live the rock star lifestyle. His wardrobe is stuffed with black boots, band T-shirts, black jeans and jeans painted with his trademark Maltese Cross design.

He listens to Metallica, Guns N' Roses, and AC/DC almost exclusively. A biography on the Doors—

—sits alone on the shelf by his bed. An intricate tattoo carved into his right ankle. But Matt is loathe to admit he might be playing up to the image. "I don't really care if they want to say that," he says. "I just like music." Later, Bosko attempts to get Matt posing with his guitar. "Hey Hoyo, grab your guitar and I'll take a shot of you in full rock star pose," he enthuses, making loud, distorted grunting noises and strumming his camera case. "Nah, mate, I don't want to," says Matt, looking over at me self-consciously.

Matt speaks lucidly about media attention playing a role in influencing contest judges. "Photos help a lot," he says. "Slater's a good example. Everyone gets it. I've surfed better and been beaten and went bad and won. Everyone gets overscored at certain stages." Matt still smarts at the memory of losing his first-round heat to Flavio Padaratz at last year's BHP contest in Newcastle. With only seconds remaining and the wily Brazilian needing a score of 26 to get through to the next round, Padaratz took off on a rare set wave, did a couple of turns, slapped the lip in the shorey and was scored a generous 26.5—relegating Matt to a disappointing 33rd. "That was pretty heavy," he growls. "I was spewing."

Thursday evening at the Merewether RSL. A smattering of mostly old men are shuffling noiselessly between the bar and the dance floor where a raffle is being drawn. A faded portrait of the Queen in full regalia hangs on the back wall. "Beer. It's filth. I just love getting pissed," Matt explains candidly. He is looking absurdly out of place with his long confused blond hair, leather jacket, and boots. His mate Andrew, a tall ginger-headed 22-year-old, is stretched out in one of the vinyl chairs, freshly polished Doc Martens perched conspicuously on a seat in front of him. I look around nervously, awaiting some huge ex-digger to pound a gnarled fist on the table and demand we leave. Instead, we are greeted with smiles of recognition. "If chicks came here I'd never leave," announces Matt, clutching his schooner happily. Despite all the fame and the occasional glory of the pro tour, Matt is happiest at home with his mates. "I miss everyone," he says. "Even people I don't really like."

It was this combination of mateship and fondness for beer that resulted in a broken jaw in France last year. After being refused entry to a Biarritz nightclub ("It was a surfers night and you were supposed to get in for free," he says indignantly), a bottle had been thrown at the club's glass door. As a result, Andrew's brother Jeremy was set upon by the bouncers. "We just went 'That's it' and started lobbing bottles at the front door. Then we walked off, got about 100 meters away, and were jumped. About six bouncers," says Matt with proud amusement. "Andy got punched first, then I got punched and I was OUT! I was going 'I've broken my jaw. I've broken my jaw' and they're going 'Bullshit, you couldn't talk if you'd broken your jaw.' The last thing I saw, Luke (Egan) had a guy by the head. He was going SMASH SMASH," says Matt, pummelling the air for effect. "Nothing happened to Luke except he hurt his finger from punching."

Although some disgruntled locals claim Luke has forsaken his friends for the bright lights of the tour ("I shouldn't say this but Luke has lost it," said one), Matt accords his Merewether clubmate the ultimate accolade. "He can fuckin' drink a lot," beams Matt. "He's a big beer drinker." According to Matt, it was Luke who encouraged him to jump on the tour, who helped organize a sponsorship with O'Neill and who helped him survive his first year (Matt finished the '89 season rated an impressive 37th—narrowly beaten for rookie of the year honors by Flavio Padaratz). "Luke was always psyching me to go," he explains. "I went fucked in the Australian Titles that year and Luke sorta went 'Come on, you've gotta do it now or never. I was really lucky because Luke had been there before so I was cruising."

Before setting off on the tour. Matt had earnt himself something of a reputation as a yuppie, complete with neatly styled short blonde hair and hopes for a well-paying job. An '88 advertisement for his board sponsor Pacific Dreams shows an almost awkward, clean-cut local lad hamming it up for the cameras—far removed from the hip, tattooed pro of today. It happened quickly. After a bare 12 months on the tour, Matt returned home looking more like an extra from a government-funded movie documenting the evils of substance abuse. "You see heaps of different shit out there, and you don't want to be doing the same shit you've been doing. You see all these other people, hear different music, and I just went, 'This is not me,'" explains Matt of his old self.

Along with the new look came a reputation for ferocious partying. "Man, you've got to relax on the tour, it's pretty heavy," he says seriously. "It's so stressful. Stress about money all the time, going through airports, stressing about planes. You've got to have fun otherwise you'd go mental. I would go MENTAL—I'd start killing people. You've got to relax every weekend. After your heat, go for it, I reckon. I do."

Though rising only two notches to 35 last year, a swag of photos and advertisements elevated Matt to surf stardom. Schoolgirls now giggle and point in his presence and older surfers dote affectionately on his every move. "It's pretty funny," he says. "I still can't believe people want my autograph. What the fuck are they going to do with it?" But with stardom comes the inevitable question of responsibility. Is he concerned that impressionable young groms might be inclined to imitate his fast living? "Fuck that," rasps Matt, appalled at the very suggestion. "I don't change 'cos someone's whingeing that her son Jerry's seen me get pissed and all he wants to is get pissed. That's bullshit. If a grommet's that stupid they should get a kick in the head."

Matt's own childhood was far from idyllic. His Mum and Dad separated when he was four, he was left with his grandparents for a year while his Mum traveled overseas, and his school years were marred by poor eyesight and difficulties with reading ("I've read three books this year," he says proudly). At school, Matt hung with an older, heavier crew who were more into drinking than surfing. "He would go out drinking when he was 14 or 15," says his Mum Leslie, towering, cultured women with the same be-freckled features and strawberry blonde hair as Matt. "He was always radical," she says."He got raided by the drugs squad when he was 16."

The raid occurred during the '87 Surfest and, suspiciously, a week prior to Operation Noah—a national exercise that encourages people to anonymously point the finger at anyone suspected of taking, selling, or lurking near anything resembling a drug. Fortunately, neither Matt nor visiting American pro Scott Farnsworth had been storing the suspected cache of narcotics and two embarrassed detectives were forced to leave empty-handed. "Mum FREAKED," recalls Matt.

Just over a year later, with the help of sponsors Mambo and Pacific Dreams, Matt had turned pro. "It was filthy," says Matt of his first year as a touring pro. "I bought everything I ever wanted—video cameras, cars, bikes. '89 was a good year, I reckon." So good that earlier this year Matt put an $18,000 cash deposit on a slightly disheveled weatherboard house 100 meters from Merewether Beach. "I've got no money but I've got the house," he says, suddenly adopting the demeanor of a wizened young businessman. "It's a good house, it's in a good spot."

And what about Brian Hoy, Matt's dad? "He was THE influence," declares Matt. Although having little to do with the actual mechanics of rearing his son, Brian would take him out surfing—constantly hassling, cajoling and encouraging the freckly youngster. "He used to write me off 'cause I never used to go out the back," grins Matt. A 1974 photo of Brian, a former Merewether Boardriders club champ, shows an amazing likeness between his 20-year-old self and his son. Both have the same long, slightly wavy hair and both sport carefully cultivated goatees. Theirs is not the average father-son relationship. "He's good in barrels, he's the best barrel rider," says Matt, almost adoringly. "I went to Fiji with him, it was filthy watching him surf."

Brian has also shaped virtually every surfboard ever owned by Matt, save for a Hawaiian quiver of Bulkleys and the odd Merrick or Webber. Matt's current boards are all narrow flat-rockered channel-bottomed swallowtails—viciously fast creatures designed to harness Matt's rail burrowing power. And all are emblazoned with his trademark Maltese cross (borrowed from The Cult). So popular has the design become, surfers from as far away as Japan are already copying it. "It's fucked," spits Matt. "But, I mean, it's not mine. I've copied it off someone else—but it does piss me off." Pacific Dreams has actually brought out a 'Matt Hoy model' complete with the famous spray and a $10 commission for forwarded to Matt for every board sold.

Hoyo has been a member of perhaps the world's strongest club, Merewether, since he was 13, surfing against guys like Luke Egan, Nick Wood, Dave Macarthur, and four-time world champ Mark Richards. "He's an influence on everybody in Newcastle," Matt says of MR. "He'd have to be. If he's not, you should give up surfing. Mark should be an influence on every surfer, ever." The standard of surfing within the club is so high, says Matt, the best heat he's seen anywhere in the world occurred during a club contest between Luke Egan and upcoming junior Chad Edser. "They were just going off! Airs, filthy roundhouse cutbacks, it was easily the best heat. Luke only won it by 0.5 of a point and only because he had more power."

Sitting on the steps outside his Mum's house. Matt is looking remarkably well-groomed today. The tangled locks are combed neatly and pulled into a severe ponytail, the sideburns and errant whiskers freshly shaved. His boards and a huge travel bag are jammed into a tiny rental car—all set for the two-hour journey to Sydney Airport, where he'll leave for the Japanese leg of the tour. After three blurred days of throwing down beers, stalking nightclubs and having his back slapped by well-wishers. Matt is about to return to the stark reality of competing for a living—where image and grand predictions count for little. "Hopefully I can stay in the top 30, that'd do for now," he laughs, trying to shrug off the many expectations—as if ambition could pop the decidedly pleasant bubble he is currently occupying. Does he have what it takes to become another MR, merrily collecting world titles at will? Or is he doomed to the ways of his excesses? I get the distinct feeling that he rarely, if ever, contemplates what's at stake: the huge sums of money, the melon-breasted women, and incredible adulation that lays in wait should he don the world crown. My God, does he even want the wretched thing? "Fuck knows," he responds, with unshakeable nonchalance. "I'd have to be surfing a lot better than I am now!"

"CULT OF PERSONALITY: THE MATT HOY INTERVIEW," BY DEREK RIELLY (1991)

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