It was just a gap. Or, well, that's what the architects at Point Loma High School in San Diego probably thought when they designed that specific set of stairs. To them, it was a pedestrian thoroughfare. To the rest of the world, it became the Leap of Faith skateboarding landmark, a terrifying eighteen-foot drop that defined an entire era of "go big or go home" culture.
People died. Okay, not literally, but ankles certainly did. Boards snapped like toothpicks. It wasn't about technical prowess or flipping into a grind. It was about gravity. It was about whether your knees could handle the impact of falling nearly two stories onto flat, unforgiving ground.
Honestly, the Leap of Faith is kinda the ultimate example of how skateboarding subverts architecture. You take a space designed for walking and turn it into a gauntlet. It wasn't just a trick; it was a dare. If you grew up watching skate videos in the late 90s, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You remember the grainy footage. The sound of the wind. The silence before the snap.
Jamie Thomas and the 1997 Zero Video
You can’t talk about this spot without talking about "The Chief." Jamie Thomas.
In 1997, Zero Skateboards released Thrill of It All. This wasn't some polished, corporate production. It was raw. It felt dangerous. When Thomas stood at the top of that rail at Point Loma, he wasn't just looking at a gap. He was looking at a career-defining moment. He tried to melon grab it.
He didn't land it.
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He fell. Hard. His board basically disintegrated upon impact because the physics of a human being falling 18 feet onto a wooden plank are, frankly, brutal. But the fact that he tried it? That changed everything. It set a new bar for what "gnarly" meant. Before that, gaps were big, sure, but the Leap of Faith was a different beast entirely. It was a psychological barrier.
Why the physics were so messed up
Basically, when you jump off something that high, your downward velocity is massive.
$v = \sqrt{2gh}$
If you plug in the height of that gap (roughly 5.5 meters), you’re hitting the ground at about 10 meters per second. That’s roughly 22 miles per hour, straight down.
Standard skateboard decks are made of seven-ply Canadian maple. They are strong, but they aren't meant to withstand the force of a 160-pound man accelerating at that speed. Most skaters who looked at the Leap of Faith realized that even if they stayed on the board, the board itself might not survive the encounter.
The aftermath and the copycats
After Jamie Thomas put it on the map, the Leap of Faith became a pilgrimage site. Every kid with a death wish and a fresh setup wanted to see it. Most just stood at the top, looked down, and said, "Nope."
There's a famous story—mostly true—about how the school eventually had to do something about the "skater problem." They didn't just put up signs. They tried to make it unskateable. Eventually, they put an elevator or a structure in the way, effectively "killing" the spot. But before the modifications, a few others stepped up.
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- Ian DeVore famously tried to ollie it.
- Kyle Berard gave it a shot.
- Countless locals whose names never made it into a Thrasher magazine left their DNA on that concrete.
It’s important to realize that the Leap of Faith wasn't "fun" to skate. It was a chore. It was a test of will. You didn't go there to warm up or work on your flatground game. You went there to see if you could survive.
The death of the "Big Drop" era
By the mid-2000s, skateboarding started shifting. The "Leap of Faith" style of skating—just jumping off the biggest thing you could find—started to lose its luster. People got tired of seeing broken ankles and snapped boards.
Skaters like Stefan Janoski or Marc Johnson brought the focus back to technicality. Instead of jumping off a building, why not do a kickflip backtail on a waist-high ledge? It was more relatable. It was more sustainable. Jamie Thomas himself eventually pivoted, though he’ll always be the guy who stared down the Point Loma monster.
Yet, we still talk about it. Why?
Because it represents a moment in time when skateboarding felt truly lawless. There was no Street League. There were no Olympics. There was just a guy, a board, and a drop that looked like it would end your life.
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What most people get wrong about the spot
A lot of modern skaters look at the footage and think, "I could do that." They see the 4K slow-mo clips of guys jumping over massive stairs today and think the Leap of Faith is small.
It's not.
The perspective in those old 4:3 fish-eye lens videos doesn't do it justice. The landing area was notoriously crusty. The run-up was awkward. You had to clear a railing just to get into the air. It wasn't a clean, park-style setup. It was a jagged, high-stakes piece of public property that wanted to break you.
Actionable Takeaways for the Modern Skater
If you're inspired by the history of the Leap of Faith skateboarding scene, don't go jumping off your local high school roof tomorrow. There are better ways to channel that energy.
- Check your gear. If you are skating big gaps, you need a deck with a stiff pop and, more importantly, high-quality bushings and shock pads. Impact is the enemy.
- Learn to fall. The only reason Jamie Thomas walked away from his attempts is because he knew how to tuck and roll. If you stiff-leg a landing from that height, your ACLs will turn into confetti.
- Respect the spot. If a spot is legendary, treat it with some reverence. Don't leave trash. Don't wax things that don't need waxing.
- Understand the history. Watch Thrill of It All. Watch the old Zero videos. Understand that the "Leap of Faith" wasn't just a physical place; it was a mindset that pushed the industry toward the extreme.
The Leap of Faith is gone now, at least in its original form. You can't go skate it. The school changed the layout, and the legendary gap is effectively "capped." But in the archives of skateboarding history, it remains the ultimate benchmark of bravery versus stupidity. Sometimes, the line between the two is just eighteen feet of air.
To truly honor that legacy, focus on progression that keeps you on the board. Building up to larger gaps requires a gradual increase in impact tolerance. Start with a four-stair, move to an eight, and learn how your body handles the compression. The era of the 18-foot drop might be over, but the spirit of taking a risk on something that scares you is still exactly what skateboarding is about.