"Long Soggy Saga," Tom Morey's story about making a surfboard from cardboard, ran in the Fall 1993 issue of Surfer's Journal. This version has been slightly edited.

It was 1965, the middle of November, and a typical dreary morning. I was working out of Ventura, California (going broke actually), trying to build surfboards from a tiny metal shed at the north end of Santa Clara Street. No one had been to the shop for days. The skies were gray with a blur drizzle clouding everything, including my mind. Consequently, I was just sorta squatting down behind the counter in a doze when the phone rang and a cheery voice on the other end goes,

After realizing that some tits really do look like turnips, I snapped out of it recognizing this as my old surfing pal, Lynn "Beetle" Bailey, calling from New York. No business, of course, but what the heck, a call from the Beetle was always amusing.

“Egg breath,” I said, cheerfully. “Jeezo, it’s good to have three thousand miles of line between us. What’s up?”

Lynn explained that at a recent cocktail party he’d overheard executives from Ogilvy & Mather (a famous New York advertising agency) discussing how Dewey Weber had turned down the job of building a paper surfboard for an upcoming International Paper Company TV ad. The ‘paper’ board was to be constructed from some kind of new water-resistant cardboard, then filmed as some nut would ride it in "the wild Hawaiian surf." (Dewey was busy at the time making 300 surfboards a week!)

Anyhow, Lynn had convinced them that losing Dewey was lucky for them indeed, since the only man in surfing who could actually build such a board, “might just be available—call Tom Morey right away!” May the Gods forever smile on the Beetle.

A couple of hours later, sure enough, film producer Al Jenkins, representing Ogilvy & Mather, called wondering could I really do the job, how long would it take and so forth. Turns out the project was not so silly as it first sounded. The "paper" involved is actually resin-impregnated cardboard. The commercial is to demonstrate how a box on the loading dock in the rain, if made of this stuff, won’t dissolve into slop as would a normal box. The point being: "Buy this new cardboard! Heck, they even make surfboards out of it!”

With no income, I am Mr. Positive to Mr. Jenkins, all enthusiasm, requesting he send me samples. But I gotta play it cool. “Al, I’ll take a look, figure it out and get back to you soon.” (Bluff.)

Five days later, a truck delivers a pallet of International Paper Company’s hi-tech cardboard, which I puzzle over for another five days until at last a tiny vision dawns. 

The first step is to sweep the floor and lay down five pieces of cardboard, end to end. After walking around this obstruction for a couple of more days, I bought a gallon of contact cement and laminated another five pieces to the first five so that the joints staggered; overlapping like bricks. I even successfully bent in a little nose rocker during the gluing. 

Stoked, I continued, brick-style, until a three-inch thick cardboard surfboard blank took shape. The resulting laminate seemed sturdy enough to maybe hold together, and it had real nice rocker, too. Cowabunga! (Unfortunately, it also weighed 54 pounds.)

I left the blank on the floor for a couple of more days, and just sort of looked at it once in a while. Finally, I hand-sawed a crude looking plan shape and glued in a fin box. Using the electric planer, I then turned the rails—soft along the nose and mid-section, down-rails in the rear for speed. Safe to say whoever rode this beast would need all the speed he could get.

Next came the major problem of what to do about the rails being mostly (as in, 90-percent) open holes. At any point along the rail, in fact, you could look through the board to the other side via thousands of corrugated openings. The thing would definitely flood in seconds. Caulking it with globs of silicon sealant might work, but, hey, I didn’t want to cheat. Also, I didn’t want to run out and buy $100 worth of silicon when so far I hadn't spent a dime of my own money. 

So I called Mr. Jenkins and told him how wonderful everything was going except for this tiny detail of the porous rails.

He was pleased as punch that I had even started on the project, and says, "Great! Don’t caulk the rails just yet. I think we need to come out and take a look first.” December with the Christmas holidays would not be convenient, so the second week in January was selected.

At the appointed hour, seven New York ad people showed up in three rental cars. Guys and gals, a montage of John Lennon glasses, kinked and dyed hair, button down shirts, leather skirts, slacks, and tassels. Who knows that they were all necessary, but at least I could see there was serious money involved.

Meanwhile, I’m on my regular barefoot-whenever-possible routine, wearing my resin-stained Levi’s and a vintage David Goddard T-shirt.

The Magnificent Seven all crowd into my dinky shop and we make small talk. Then I show the board and explain how, unless caulked, it’s gonna go down like an anvil. They are not convinced and want a demonstration. So I don my Dive ’n Surf shortjohn and lead the caravan down a little side road to the seclusion of Fairground Beach.

The surf is one foot, onshore, barely slopping over the rocks.

I wax up so they can see I knew some real surfing moves, make a cheap-thrills sprinting run off the beach into the cold gray afternoon mush, and land standing on the board, skimming out to sea. Good show, I’m looking cool and coordinated.

Then the water floods in and I glug awkwardly down with the ship, rails passing gas on either side of me like Alka-Seltzer.

The landlubbers nonetheless think this is all just great and take me out to lunch to hash over the details. Over sandwiches, I say it'll be $1,000 for  this first board (which will be dried and caulked), plus $500 apiece for two more un-caulked backups. They buy it. (New shoes for the kids!

Well, you know how it is with sales, once the resistance comes down, great things can happen. So as a bonus I also land the surfing gig itself. A Screen Actor’s Guild card is filled out. Everybody makes plans to meet in Hawaii in a few weeks time. 

I get there first, in early February 1966, check into the Makaha Hotel, and arrange for Buffalo Keaulana to handle the beach security. Several real nice days at Makaha follow; I work on my tan and warm up in good, well-overhead surf.

But the day Jenkins and the film crew arrive, of course, the wind switches  to strong Kona and the waves dribble down to waist-high. This continues for another three days.

On the morning of the seventh day, the wind shifts to trade conditions and the point is six-foot and perfect. At 9:00 AM, with just a narrow window ahead when tide, swell and lighting will be right, Al tells me, “They’re all set, Tom. Get on out there and break a leg!”

Buffalo has cleared the beach and I luck my way in the lineup between solid eight-foot sets. Although the board has a lot of flex, it seems like it’s gonna hold up.

A fat set shows and I select the third wave. As it approaches, I glance to the beach and see the 35-mm camera directly to my front. It is definitely eyeing straight back at me; on target. Okay, good. The 1000-mm further down the beach also seems properly positioned, but I can't quite tell.

So, wearing my best white trunks and conjuring an air of maximum casualness, I one-stroke into the thing and pop to my feet. Fading left with exaggerated finesse, I angle down, crouch, lay this this cardboardasaurus through 120 degrees of rotation, and up we go into a classic semi-stall. So far, so good. 

Then, sensing how this is really my big moment in show biz, I nonchalantly walk three steps forward; not to the absolute tip but definitely to the nose. Adjusting back slightly, I steer this 55 pound bumbler into full trim across the cresting power. 

Then back down, nice and easy, one final bottom turn, and we're into a smooth glide-out in the finest tradition. 

I have actually surfed this stupid thing and gotten it on film; far-fucking out!

Still congratulating myself, I look to the lead cameraman for verification. Seated by his giant lens now directly to my front, he glances up from adjusting some knob, smiles, professionally cups his hand around his mouth and bellows into the trades: “Okay, Morey, we’re ready to start whenever you are!”

Sonofabitch! The ride of my life, and this guy’s on a union break!

Depressed, I paddle back out. Except now El Soggo is feeling a little bit slower. A 

 slower, in fact, and taking on water like a thirsty camel. I’m faking good cheer and confidence, of course. But cripes, just how bad is it gonna be when the next set arrives?!

Back in the lineup, the water now up to my waist (I'd been knee-paddling at the start of this caper), the next set does arrive and I decide to go for the first one, figuring we've got no time to waste. Anticipating a much slower response, I swing the boad around and dig in. To my dismay, there is no response. The turd stays where it is. The wave simply passes us by, moving over the board as though it were a drifting log.

An hour later, two local kids help me drag the washed-up remains of board #1 to the Makaha Inn dumpster.

Jenkins reassures me that things will still work out. "No biggie, Tom. We have two more boards and two more days. Besides, maybe camera one got that first wave!" 

That afternoon, I bought seven giant tubes of silicon caulk from Makaha Hardware and carefully, ever so carefully, caulked every little nook and cranny of board #2. Then bright and early the following morning, with the surf still good, lighting excellent, winds just right and cameras ready, I paddle out on this brand new "leakproof" version, with two cups of Lipton Tea going off in my blood stream. World beware!

Swing around, paddle. Stay cool. Today’s strategy is simplified—no turns; just some nice angling.

The takeoff is sweet and I’m up, learning forward and trimming down the line. What’s more, both cameras are definitely pointing right at Yours Truly. I am without question the paper surfboard world champeen! And just like that I get slightly out of trim, shuffle forward to correct, which causes the nose to go just ever-so-slightly underwater— and break right off. Completely. Gordon Clark can breathe easy. Paper surfboards are not going to replace foam any time sooon.

I’m a little weak explaining this one to Jenkins.

But again he takes it in his stride (a consummate professional) and suggests meeting over lunch to discuss the best use of our final day and our last remaining board.

During the meeting, one of the cameramen gets a bright idea, “Look, let’s quit fooling around and just cut out the center of the remaining cardboard job and glue in a real surfboard!” 

“Yeah!” Everyone nods and smiles in agreement with this obvious solution.

Everyone, that is, except me. I explain how it’s one thing to talk about, “just gluing it in,” but quite another to actually make it happen.

“It’ll leak,” I say. “And besides, that would be cheating.”

I offer Plan B. I’ll return to the Makaha Hardware Store this afternoon, buy all the necessary materials, and fully glass our last remaining board. It'll be done before bedtime. (Oh to be thirty again and know everything instantly.) “We’ll worry later,” I add, “about how the glassed board won’t look much like cardboard anymore.”

I buy a $100 worth of glass, resin, catalyst, buckets, stir sticks, solvent, masking tape, pigment, on and on, and we begin covertly fiberglassing board #3. A parking space between two Cadillacs at the rear of the Makaha Hotel becomes our temporary surfboard factory. ("We" glassing the board is actually me doing the work while three of the crew watch out for the manager.)

Of course, the job becomes an all-nighter and turns out horrible. The rails, which again are ten percent cardboard and ninety percent holes, just don’t take to my flour-thickened resin, which drains onto the parking lot asphalt. But what else can we do?

At five in the morning, I’m completely fagged. I take a quick snooze, eat and do a final one-hour silicon caulking. Then, once again, it’s showtime.

Except today is Saturday, and while the surf is good and the lighting is excellent, Buffalo is having trouble controlling the crowd.

The paddle-out is tough. The glass job plus two tubes of last-minute caulking have not, it turns out, fully waterproofed this board. Not even close. Cardboard #3 is so heavy that by the time I'm halfway out, I'm off the board and treading water. A set moves through and washes the board away, up onto the beach.

I will always remember how it took several of us to stand the thing up on shore, like the flag-raisers at Iwo Jima, gallons of water whizzing out every which way like a thousand tiny squirt guns.

Tail between my legs, I again approach fearless leader Jenkins (hopefully for the last time). I smile a horrible fake smile. "It's okay! I have another plan!"

“You can see for yourself, Al, that although this board leaked a little, it is still really strong."

“And Buffalo handles that brand new Boston Whaler so skillfully in and out through the break, did you notice?"

"The surf isn’t really all that big today, nor dangerous. And look, the board is practically drained empty now. See? The water is barely dribbling out. And we have some silicon left. So, how about I re-caulk all these little holes, and we have Buff take me and the board out beyond the reef. Then I can rope tow from outside into the lineup. That way, the board won’t sit there soaking water. As soon as the ride is over, Buffalo can pick up the board, I can drain it if necessary, and we do it again until you have all the shots you need.” The pathetic logic of a desperate man.

Buffalo is not excited about this plan. Really not excited. But Jenkins, who after all is paying the bills, runs the show. And I realize that at this point he is even more desperate than I am. So, with nothing to lose, he gives one more okay.

We rest for a spell, during which time one of the cameramen gets caught up in how this really could work out. He comes up with the brilliant idea of getting some terrific close-up action footage directly from the boat! So he loads himself, an assistant, and a 35-mm movie camera onto the boat, and is jointed by Buffalo, Jenkins, me and the now re-caulked and still sticky board #3.

Buffalo ferries us outside, no problem. By this time we are all quite happy about how the board is safe and dry. Besides, the sun is out, and it’s a beautiful day. 

Way outside we spot what looks like a nice wave moving in, so I hop into the water with the board, grab the tow-rope, and away we go! Damn, this is gonna work!

Buff tows me to what seems like a good takeoff spot, I let go, and he peels away and out of camera view. I’m gliding into position, and just before losing speed, pick up the wave. Only somehow I’m not exactly lined up right—too far behind the curl. Next thing I know, four smiling locals are riding in front of me. Fifteen yards later, the Bowl knocks us all down like bowling pins.

I stay under as long as possible, coming up in hopes of seeing the frigging board broken in two and this ordeal over. But no, it’s together and floating halfway inside. The boat picks me up and Buffalo wisely suggests we let the board go. But no, I again have a better idea, “Nah, let's try again.”

So in we go after the board. With Buffalo steadying the boat, I reach down to fish out the board and a sneaky inside wave broadsides us. The boat goes completely topsy-turvy, planting all of us in the drink; Jenkins, Buffalo, the cameraman, his assistant, the $45,000 camera, and least of all me.

Looking back on it all after twenty-five years, I’m completely hysterical.

But it was serious stuff then. Hopefully, Ogilvy & Mather reimbursed everyone.

I avoided Buffalo until just last year, when I apologized for the trouble I caused, and we played uke together and had some laughs.)

In any case, that final afternoon Jenkins got a few decent shots of me from the knees up, climbing and dropping at Makaha on my regular foam-core board, with the sun setting in the background. Furthermore, small camera Number One had recorded that very first ride, on the very first day. Taken together, it was enough for the New York ad boys to edit a dandy little 30-second commercia, which was viewed (I'm told) over a hundred million times. Over the next 18 months, I earned an additional $4,000 in residuals—which, kids wasn’t a whole lot of money even in those days, but not all that bad considering.

In August of '66, a two-page color ad appeared in 

showing the takeoff on that first wave on Cardboard #1, a true paper surfboard—if you disregard the 15 pounds of silicon rubber plugging the rails. 

“LONG SOGGY SAGA,” TOM MOREY AND THE PAPER SURFBOARD

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