I’m sure Socrates, himself, would scratch his head contemplating that one, especially if he had just drawn his fifth consecutive ‘Please try again’. “Lads”, I could hear him say, “ it’s time for a career change. From this day on I will stop trading in amphora futures and dedicate myself to philosophy. I hear it pays well and is fraught with little danger”. Or something to that effect.

Like most Nova Scotians, I am always in tune with my inner Greek philosopher, so after pondering the whole thing over one more time, I decided that it was time for a change. From now on, I would get my coffee at Starbucks and play the lottery, instead.  I was sure that my financial planner would nod with vigorous approval when confronted by my new retirement strategy. “There goes a chap who has a sound head on his shoulders,” he would say to himself and then go on to trim his hedge funds.

Still, something else was nagging at me and a week or two later, I realised what it was. A quick call to my accountant confirmed the fact that for the last two years I had not received a paycheque of any sorts.  When confronted by this news, my editor gave me a blank stare - the one  recently trade-marked by George Busch -  then informed me that my unpaid internship had actually ended in 2004.  He had always wondered why I had hung around all these years, but had been too lazy to ask.

I had never given much thought to those reports of Japanese soldiers who had hidden in jungles for decades, unaware that the war was long lost. Now they appeared to me like brothers in arms . Had I run into one of them hiding at the Seahorse that day,  I would have slapped him on the shoulder, told him not to worry, and would have assured him that this type of thing can happen to anyone. “Errare humanum est,” I would have muttered before buying him a sake or two and sending him on his way.

But unlike my imaginary Japanese comrade,  who was sure to receive a princely pension on top of sixty years of lost wages, I was flirting with bankruptcy. Actually, it should more aptly be described as a full blown affair of the Last Tango in Paris sort. No wonder my accountant had been getting thinner and thinner these last few years. All signs pointed to some form of action that needed to be taken.

In Nova Scotia, all graduates of any sort are weeded into three distinct pools: bed and breakfast workers, civil servants and lottery vendors. The first category is usually filled by those with PhDs in Physics, while the second one is somehow connected to birth right. All others are put to work in category number three, which is teeming with mathematicians, particle physicists, and failed nuns.

Needless to say, that as a columnist of advanced years, my chances of entering any of these lucrative field were limited. True, while there always was the option of entering politics, I had doubts that I could deal with the negative public image the profession entails. I therefore chose to become a sealer.

A quick glance at the Greenpeace website informed me that the first thing a good sealer needs is a decent club, a hakapik to use the technical jargon. Much to my chagrin, Canadian Tire must have had a run on them, since none were to be found. I settled for my trusted nine iron.

The lack of any decent rain gear would have posed a problem, had I not fortuitously tripped over my daughters new Barbie umbrella while I was packing for my expedition. I squeezed it in, between the hand lotion and my copy of Sealing for Dummies, and marched off to my first day of work.

Filled with unbridled enthusiasm, I turned to Chapter One while taking a cab to Starbucks. What I read was both riveting and highly informative. Take this quote, for example: “Step 1 – find a seal. “  

Admittedly, that one was a bit of a stunner. I suddenly had a flashback to my university days, when the first question on one of my final exams asked me to “examine the role of the standard model of particle physics in light of  Burgess’ theory of quantum deviation.” Up to that point, I had been under the impression that I was taking ‘History of French Film 101 ” .

Still, we sealers are not easily discouraged, and I started to give the matter some thought. A few decaf-lattés later it dawned on me that the ocean was the key to the whole riddle. “Down to the waterfront “ became my new motto.

After wading through the crowd of spring tourists, I finally found a nice spot on a peer close to one of the pubs, set down my lawn chair and waited for the seals, golf club at the ready.

There are numerous signs that a seal hunt is off to a bad start, foremost of which is the total lack of any protesters. Sure, some of the people filing by my observation post were looking rather glum, while others were even downright annoyed as they tripped  over my beer cooler. Still, it was not the same as having Pamela and Paul scream obscenities at you. The whole thing was becoming rather disheartening, especially since the seals, too,  appeared to be boycotting the whole procedure. Someone must have tipped them off.

But just as I was contemplating dropping off a résumé at the B&B across the street, I spotted something grey and furry out of the corner of my eye. I had seen a seal or two at a zoo many years ago, but I was not prepared for the breathtaking beauty with which I was now confronted. Majestically it lay before me, its black eyes staring back at me with millions of years of pride at having survived in some of the toughest climates on earth. But it was its coat that momentarily took my breath away, for its perfect geometrical symmetry was juxtaposed by battle scars that bore testament to its bravery and endurance. A more majestic creature I had never seen before. Then I clubbed it.

Luckily, one of my jailors, an old acquaintance of mine, was kind enough to cheer me up with one of Tim’s finest. Absentmindedly, I rolled up the edge of the cup.

It was with a smile of relief that I laid down that night.  The thousand dollars I had just won would pay for a decent lawyer. The rest would go towards lottery tickets. My future was once again secure.