Chris Hemsworth rides up on a horse, reins in one hand, face shining in the Australian sun. We’re on a pristine stretch of beach near his house. Our last gallop took me by surprise, my feet flapping wildly out of their stirrups, and Hemsworth wants to make sure I feel safe.
He tells me to steer my horse into the Pacific if I don’t know how else to stop. This gallant little scene captures the fantasy of Hemsworth: pop culture’s sunny, reliable hero. But the best stuff about him as a person—the funny, messy, human stuff—lives beneath the glossy surface.
Later, he’ll say of our rollicking morning on the beach, “I had a moment of, Oh, I can catch her if she falls off. That’ll be good for the story. And my next thought was, No, you’ll fall over before she will, and she’ll have to catch you.”
Hemsworth and his family live in Byron Bay, a surf town just south of Australia’s Gold Coast where men walk barefoot into nice restaurants and all the women have long, sun-streaked hair and not even the old people look old.
Everyone is fit and beautiful and drinks green juice, and maybe it would all be alienating if people weren’t also so warm and kind. When I tell my hotel receptionist that I’m in town to meet Hemsworth, she smiles approvingly.
“He’s one of us,” she says. “Just like any of the other surfers down at the beach. Doesn’t carry on or put on airs. Looks like my mate’s brother, you know?”