The man on the wharf is wearing a burgundy dress and chucking rocks into the water. Technically, it’s a robe he’s wearing. And those aren’t rocks. They’re live lobsters, which he quickly and precariously un-bands before launching them into the cold, sloshing water.

I didn’t even know there was a Buddhist monastery tucked away on the edge of Cape Breton Island until I moved to Toronto and started hanging around with the Viva Rica super juice hawkers, who were always on a perpetual quest for the latest, greatest path to peace, love, and new trinkets to prove just how enlightened they were. Naturally, Ami knew all about it because some New Age shiny happy guru-type was on Oprah pushing a book about how she overcame all the negative vibes around her, and apparently, a key part of the process that fixed her entire life was spending a week in retreat with a Buddhist teacher at a monastery on some magical, healing, hallowed little Canadian island called Cape Breton. And bam! That monastery was besieged by throngs of flakes on a mad mission to find the bright white light of bliss up in the woods Down North.

Ami actually went to the monastery nestled deep in the hills of my homeland last year, but her retreat only lasted three days because they didn’t have Wi-Fi. Or lattes. Or any hot young monks. And because the great Buddhist teacher that the Oprah chick gushed about wasn’t in the habit of giving personal teachings to every random grinning ditz who showed up at the monastery. And, as it turns out, Buddhism is a bit of a downer, what with all the suffering and sitting and silence and such.

“You crusty little cocksucker!” The man grunts as he jerks his left hand back with a shake, and hucks a sprawling-clawed lobster over the edge of the wharf with his right. He bows a mechanical bow, mumbling something about merit and being of benefit and freeing all beings from the ocean of Samsara as he watches the crusty little cocksucker sink. He stands there for a minute rubbing his pinched thumb, hesitating to pluck another from the bucket.

I stand there, debating whether to engage him in some perfunctory chit-chat, like a good little rural busybody, or pretend he’s invisible, like a good little urban sophisticate.

“You’re welcome to help me. This gesture is meant to benefit all sentient beings,” he says over his shoulder, as he gingerly plucks another lobster from the bucket, whips off the claw bands, and tosses it off the wharf. “But these guys aren’t particularly appreciative of the liberation process. Not yet anyway.”

Not appreciative of going from the balmy tank at the grocery store to the cold as a witch’s tit Bras d’Or? Imagine that.

“Sure, what the hell.” I’ve got nothing better to do, and being all grinched-up hanging out with a rather hot-for-an-old-guy Buddhist monk playing toss the lobster on New Year’s Eve makes for an interesting story. More interesting than sitting in a snowbank squawking at crows, or hanging around the trailer by myself trying to figure out how to re-shave my own head. “I hate those crusty little cocksuckers, too.”