The End of Normal: A Wife's Anguish, a Widow's New Life by Stephanie Madoff Mack

Author:Stephanie Madoff Mack [Mack, Stephanie Madoff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Family & Relationships, Psychology, True Crime, Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, Women, Hoaxes & Deceptions, Death; Grief; Bereavement, Marriage, White Collar Crime, Suicide
ISBN: 9780452298576
Publisher: Plume
Published: 2012-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

· six ·

RIPTIDE

What happened to us reminded me of a recurring nightmare I’d had as a little girl. I was with my stepfather, mother, and brother on Marty’s boat, which had a big, open back you could fish off of. I was standing there when, out of nowhere, a huge wave appeared and started chasing us, growing bigger and closer as Marty, at the helm, tried heroically to outrace it. The dream was a child’s version, I guess, of sailors’ stories about freak waves suddenly appearing in the middle of the ocean, rearing a hundred feet high and swallowing large ships whole. Eyewitnesses described the deep trough created by the monster wave before it crested as a hole in the sea.

Exactly how and why rogue waves form is still debated, but they appear unexpectedly from directions counter to prevailing winds and waves, and they loom at least twice the size of surrounding waves. If a ship has the right amount of ballast and is floating at the proper level before the wall of water hits, it can survive a rogue wave and right itself. Survival is a matter of balance.

A love of the sea, with all its mystery and majesty, was something Mark and I had always shared. When we returned to Nantucket just before Bernie was sentenced in the summer of 2009, I was certain that the island would shelter and restore us, that the sharp salt air would scour us of the lingering stench of the Madoff scandal. This place where we had been married, more than any other, defined us as husband and wife. Maybe here Mark would snap out of his funk and allow himself to enjoy life’s little pleasures again, like digging for clams with your toes and grilling them for dinner, or watching the dog chase waves.

Learning to surf topped my list of things to try that summer. I tracked down the colorful van that served as headquarters of the Nantucket Island Surf School in the parking lot of Cisco Beach and, three months after giving birth to Nicholas, signed up for lessons. I arrived each day to squeeze into my borrowed wetsuit, eager to paddle out beyond the frothy breakers.

Getting to your feet is the hardest part. I remember straddling the surfboard, legs dangling in the sea, waiting for the current to swell beneath me and carry me, laughing, back to shore. Mark would be waiting there, waving and cheering me on, while the kids played in the sand. As beginners, we were tethered to our loaner boards by ankle leashes, guided by the impossibly healthy, suntanned college kids who made up the faculty of this eclectic summer academy. At thirty-five, I was by far the oldest student. The instructors would offer to tow us out to catch a wave, but I always refused. I wanted to earn my wave. I wanted to feel every muscle burn and every nerve tingle. If I wiped out, I wanted to right myself and fight my way back in.

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