In Vigaland Podcast 11 of "Voice from an Urn", Viga's mother recounts a day at Maroubra Beach, Australia, when Viga's father plays mind games with her. "Voice from an Urn" is a mother's side of her daughter's true story of incest, told in Viga Boland's award-winning memoir, "No Tears for my Father", available from this website, along with "Voice from an Urn". 
MIND GAMES at MAROUBRA BEACH
Podcast 11: Voice from an Urn
"That ocean looks too dangerous to swim in," I say nervously to Bogdan as he offs the shirt and trousers over his swim trunks, still wet from our afternoon at Coogee Beach.
It's so incredibly hot. We have stopped at Maroubra Beach after leaving Coogee. Bogdan wants to look at this rocky, unfriendly section of Sydney's beautiful beaches famous for its dangerous surf before dropping Viga off at Mrs. Nastrom's for another week
"Surely you're not going to dive into that, are you?"
"Don't worry," he reassures me. I'm a strong swimmer. I just want to see what everyone's so afraid of here. You know me. I like a challenge." He winks. He is so confident, so sure of himself. Part of me wouldn't care if he drowned in it, but the other part immediately chastises me for thinking such dreadful things about my husband. Sure, he is horrible with me sometimes and I hate him then. But I also need him. I cannot survive in this country without him. My English is still poor; I cannot drive; I have no skills and I have a five-year-old child I barely know.
We see Viga only on weekends. The owner of the Surry Hills flat has refused to let us have her there during the week. Bogdan had done his best to change the woman's mind, oozing charm and smiling as he tried to convince her Viga would be no trouble. But she wouldn't budge.
"Those are my rules if you want the flat," she had stated firmly. "Take it or leave it."
"Stupid old woman," Bogdan had muttered to me after we put down a deposit and walked toward the 1949 Mercury he had managed to buy for a lot less than the seller wanted. He certainly seems to have a way with
getting what he wants. His ability to manipulate people both impresses and embarrasses me. Even with broken English, he is clever with words. He charms his way around people everywhere. Only I know what he is really like.
Because of her rules, we had no choice but to find someone to look after Viga during the week. Bogdan located Mrs. Nastrom, a kind Aussie woman in Kings Cross. Mrs. Nastrom loves Viga as if she were her own, and Viga loves her back. I am jealous of that love and yet I'm not. I know I should love my daughter better than I do but something holds me back. I suppose if I were honest with myself, I'd admit that if I hadn't gotten pregnant, I wouldn't be here on this stinking hot beach with Bogdan. I'd be with Leszchek. I know Viga is not to blame for that, but I can't help resenting her. What kind of mother am I to feel that way?
"Watch that Viga doesn't try to follow me when I dive in," Bogdan warns just before he launches himself off a rock into the churning, frothy waters below. I gasp in apprehension and grab Viga as she runs to watch her father. He surfaces, grins and waves to us, then does a few strokes to get away from the craggy rocks. He treads water, looking back at us and smiling, just as another huge wave breaks over him and slams him against the rocks.
"Daddy!" Viga screams as Bogdan vanishes from sight. I cannot see him. I begin to panic. There is no one around. I cannot swim. Nor can I leave Viga here alone. I look around frantically.
"Oh please," I pray. "Let him be okay."
Suddenly I spot him dragging himself out of the surf a little further up the beach. Blood is pouring down his chest, face and thighs. Viga and I run to him.
"Daddy! Daddy," screams Viga. "My daddy's bleeding!"
"Oh my God," I yell, echoing her alarm as I reach him.