Sure enough, the monk is from the hideaway monastery that clings to the edge of a cliff above the jagged and merciless ocean shoreline Down North. He introduces himself as Brother Gyaltso, but I will call him Hottie McMonk Pants when I tell Char and Allie about him and his rugged Harrison Ford-ish charm. I tell him my name is Crow. A warm beatific smile offers up a stark contrast to his cool, devilish eyes.

“That’s an interesting name,” he says. “In Tibetan Bud­dhism, crows are a symbol of protection and great auspiciousness.”

“Yeah, well I’m a cautionary tale. If it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any.”

I give him the Coles Notes version of the brain tumours. His lips scrunch up like he’s got a mouthful of piss or wisdom, something that he wants to spit out, but can’t. He turns toward the water and slowly fills himself with salt air and serenity.

“You are working with some very profound truths and teachings, then.”

“Not really,” I say, unsure if it’s him or the water that’s lulled me into confession mode. “I came back looking for some kind of grand farewell or deep truth or something. But mostly I’m just discovering that everything is a wreck. Including me.”

“Ah. Sounds like you are studying teachings from the Kick Your Own Ass Sutra,” he says, still gracing the water with his intense gaze.

“Are you guys allowed to curse?” I have to ask.

“Yes, but only after we’ve studied the Curse Your Fucking Head Off Sutra. The Cape Breton translation.” He flashes a smile and winks at me, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to be flirty or fatherly.

With the last lobster liberated, I wait for my share of the Buddhist benefits to come raining down. Instead it starts to snow. The monk picks up his bucket, gives me a pleasant nod goodbye, and starts to shuffle away to the rusted and duct-taped station wagon that somehow carried him over the string of icy mountains between here and the monastery.

“Hey, wait,” I say, the words squeezed out of me by some impulsive urgency I didn’t know was there. “Can you give me . . .” I don’t even know what to ask for.

“Need a ride somewhere?” he offers.

“No, not a ride.” I take a deep haul of breath. “Can you give me some, I dunno, guidance? The spiritual kind. I can’t live like this. Or die like this.”

He comes to stand beside me, and gestures toward the water, sweeping his arm to the place where Great Bras d’Or opens into the Atlantic.

“There is a Sufi chant,” he says, almost in a whisper. “The ocean refuses no river. Look at these waters. It’s choiceless. Shit and garbage and pollution flow in, and nothing is refused or denied. The ocean takes it in, and does its best to integrate and purify whatever comes. I offer that to you as a contemplation.” He shifts his gaze from the water to me. “We are all dying. You’re fortunate enough to know it.”