Dear Mr Hogue,
I seem to have lost something when I was at your skydiving facility a few weeks ago. It was April 25th, and I was there for my first ever tandem jump – a gift from my son for my 63rd Birthday.
I didn’t realize I’d lost something until a few days after I got home. In my defense, my mind was on other things that day—completely understandable. At first, I thought I’d simply misplaced them in all the excitement and figured they’d eventually show up.
But I’m beginning to think it must have happened during the jump.
Now, to be clear, I took all recommended precautions. I was proactive. I wore my high-tops specifically because I was worried my ankle sneakers might fly off mid-jump. My instructor, Chris, double-checked to make sure they were tight—he was very thorough. Those suckers didn’t budge an inch. From 13,000 feet up, all the way back to solid ground, my shoes held on tight.
But damned if that jump didn’t KNOCK MY F@&$*?G SOCKS OFF.
And that’s why I’m writing. I wasn’t prepared for that.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not complaining. Everything else went great. You all have tandem skydiving down to an art. The harness was snug, the instructions were clear:
Head back—up and to the left when we exit the plane.
Kick my legs back.
Keep a strong grip on my harness, arms and elbows tight to my sides until Chris tapped me—then I was to extend my arms and fly.
Coming in for the landing, I was to grab behind my knees, keep my legs lifted toward my chest until we were close to the ground—then put my feet down, flat.
And whatever I did—don’t dig in my heels.
One more check: were my shoes on tight? Because my instructor really didn’t want them coming off mid-jump. Makes for a crappy landing.
I did everything I was instructed to do. And still… that jump KNOCKED MY F&%#&G SOCKS OFF.
Sorry to repeat myself, but it really does bear repeating—again and again.
I assume my socks are now somewhere in the Arizona desert, scattered among a few dozen other pairs belonging to lucky first-timers who were catapulted into the stratosphere and came back forever changed. That freefall—5,000 feet at over 100 miles per hour—was one of the most awe-inspiring, mind-altering experiences I’ve ever taken in through all my senses.
But without my socks… I am not the same.
My suburban life suddenly feels too familiar, too lacking in adventure. I’m having a hard time powering through a daily routine when I used to just “pull up my socks” and motor through. But now? There are no socks to pull up. Everything’s different.
To add insult to injury, I’ve become one of those people—an evangelizer preaching the gospel of the Skydiving Church. The spirituality of the Freefall.
I originally wrote to ask if anyone had found my socks. But the more I think about it—f#%$k the socks.
That jump was the fastest, most effective, mind-altering therapy I’ve ever known. Lucky you, who get to experience it regularly. Lucky me, that I got to experience it even once. I’m sure my socks will find their way back to me eventually—giving me the perfect excuse to return to Skydive Phoenix and once again… KNOCK MY F@&$*?G SOCKS OFF.
All kidding aside, one more thing before I wrap this up: I have a bit of hero worship for my tandem instructor—and for your entire staff. Their calm, presence, and attention to detail created a sense of safety, focus, and yes, fun. I felt almost no fear. What I felt instead was awe, wonder, and joy—from 13,000 feet all the way down to the desert floor. And I loved every single nanosecond.
So thank you, Mr. Hogue—and thank your whole team—for offering those of us with socks firmly on and feet planted to the ground the gift, the chance, the opportunity to let go. To bust open something inside us that keeps us under control. To take in wave after wave of freedom, wonder, and beautiful, soul-altering craziness—for one too-brief moment in time.
To F&%#&G KNOCK OUR SOCKS OFF… while keeping our shoes safely on for the landing.
Sincerely,
Melissa Dougherty
P.S. I apologize for the &@€^%@ language—but without my socks, to quote Mr. Dylan, “Things Have Changed.”
