Author: By Bud Collins

Date: SUNDAY, January 31, 1999

Page: M5

Section: Travel

GREAT BARRIER ISLAND, New Zealand -- Slop the cop!

That seems the most amusing amusement for the hardy band of islanders at their New Year's fair: a good-natured dousing of the three policemen who don't have a whole lot to do in the nature of catching crooks.

So on this day annually, they take turns at catching, head-on, a bucket of water that has been rigged precariously above, on a wooden frame over the wet seat. Through a system of ropes, pulleys, and hinges -- a Rube Goldbergian contraption -- the bucket is tipped and emptied whenever a splash-minded contestant triggers it by hurling a baseball-hard cricket ball against a target 20 feet distant. Throw a bull's-eye, and keep a bull un-dry. Three balls for $2. Proceeds to a local charity.

Since a strong summer sun cloaks the scene, a soaking appears no hardship or indictable abuse of an officer.

``The law can put up with disorder once a year,'' says the fair Tanya Sykes, who is operating a fresh-fruit juice bar amid the makeshift concession stalls shaded by huge pines.

She and Marama Ulstrup also set up shop at the grass-carpeted Claris air terminal, three unremarkable sheds. There they peddle the good stuff, called a fruit smoothie (apple, orange, pineapple mix), to those infrequently arriving or departing passengers. They come and go in small prop planes of friendly Great Barrier Airlines, based in Auckland, 55 miles to the southwest, the principal city of New Zealand's North Island.

Moreover, Tanya puts in some time with the municipal ``highway'' crew. She drives a steamroller on the mostly unpaved roads where superfluous DUST NUISANCE signs may be seen. ``It's such a nice, laid-back place to be that you do whatever you can to be able to stay. There aren't many jobs.''

The local labor outlook was well expressed by a contractor, who was supposed to finish paving an uphill driveway after New Year's Day for our friend, Rick Thomson. ``Well, Rick, I've got a bit of a hangover today, you know. Tomorrow it's gonna be too nice to work. So, mate,'' he said, smiling, ``it's not gonna happen for a few days. You understand.''

Rick, a Bostonian of New Zealand upbringing who spends a month here every year with his wife, Judy Wineland, and daughters, Nicole, 11, and Erica, 9, understands. Someday a driveway?

Great Barrier Island, 110 square, rugged, beautiful, and mostly unpopulated miles without electricity or running water, is publicly out in force today. Probably a majority of the thousand-or-so residents have shown up in this pasture on a bluff above Kaitoke Beach for the simple and satisfying fun of a country fair. Predominantly costumed in shorts and halter-tops and T-shirts (US varieties such as Chicago Bulls, Buffalo Bills, Oakland Raiders, and Duke Blue Devils lead the display), they greet distant neighbors for drinks and gossip, a look-around, and a picnic. Maori faces are sprinkled among the white.

There is a used-book stand to be browsed, a kids' violin recital led by instructor Mary Watson, a yoga demonstration. Motorcycle and horseback rides are available, along with the timeless egg-and-spoon and three-legged races. Fifteen-year-old Brad Collins has won the nail-driving championship. Plastic tubing stretching down a slight slope and greased with soap suds is a thrilling slide for kiddies. Home-made bread and pastries, jams and jellies are on sale. So are the works of island pride potter, Sarah Harrison, and other craftsfolk.

Removed from the general scene are horse races conducted down on the broad beach, beside the green, fluffing sea. My racetrack degenerate Bostonian pals, Mike Vickers, ``Clocker'' Taylor, and ``Saddlesore'' Booth, would call it a primitive Delmar, alluding to their preferred California oval beside the Pacific, and wonder where the mutuel windows were located. Maybe in crannies in the rocks, manned by local skinks.

Start and finish lines are scratched in the sand. The straightaway dashes seem ominous cavalry charges accompanied by tall, spectral shadows, and hoofbeats that startle snoozing sunbathers. But gay shrieks from the watering crowd at the edge of the surf preserve the festive atmosphere.

``I would have bet on that one,'' says Nicole, pointing at the winner.

``Not if they had betting,'' says her sister, Erica, laughing. ``If they did, you would have picked that one,'' she says, pointing at the tail-ender.

``These are our favorite beaches, of so many,'' says Nicole of Kaitoke and adjoining Medlands, a three-mile horseshoe bisected by a rocky outcropping, Sugar Loaf. High dunes form the backdrop, then a series of hills on which angora goats traipse, and a wooded mountain also called Kaitoke. It's not far from the top of the island, Mount Hobson, whose demanding 3,300 feet were covered by nimble Erica, undoubtedly the first Bostonian to conquer that peak.

``This beach is teeming today,'' says Judy. ``Sorry it's so crowded.'' Right. We've counted almost 40 people. Not a structure in sight. Only rock formations that look like ancient gray Legos. The water is warm, but the surfers, who stay all day, are in wet suits.

``Fish for supper,'' says Rick as we depart homeward. ``If you catch it.'' He is looking at me.

``Otherwise, I suppose it's Berry Berry Nice Meusli,'' I respond, citing a tasty New Zealand breakfast brand. And hoping we might return to the Barrier Oasis Lodge where the resident barefoot contessa, vivacious proprietor Penny Gardiner, invites you into her kitchen while she prepares a sumptuous meal.

``Perhaps I should confess that my previous fishing expeditions have come up emptier than a Russian bank,'' I offer. ``My performances have been as adept as a wayward Walton's -- John Boy, not Izaak.

``Ah, but you can't miss in Hauraki Gulf, just off our house,'' counsels Rick. ``You will be a provider.''

``A profaner of the art,'' I grumble, even less enthusiastic about fishing than the fished. ``A guardian angel couldn't save me from a gulfing bagel. Hemingway would call me the fold man on the sea.''

Nevertheless . . ..

Within the hour, we are rockin' and reelin' on his yacht, the 14-foot Sea Nymph, two miles out in Hauraki waters where America's Cup 1999-2000 will be contested, starting in September. And my unbrilliant career as angler lurches along, with far-off green cliffs framing the sooty Gulf that matches my mood. Fish are biting, but only long enough to steal -- damned brazen bait-nappers. ``Thieves!'' I scream. ``Freeloaders!''

Judy's hook is more inviting, apparently, and she captures a six-pound snapper. Hurrah, I'm off the hook for dinner. Rick spins the wheel and heads for home and the mooring at Gooseberry Flat.

It adjoins Pah Beach, where later at night an invasion of plankton in the shallows will stage a spectacular light show. The magical phosphorescence of plankton grips anything touching the water, making fish appear silvery streaks and raindrops lightning explosions. Water cupped in hands sparkles like a trove of diamonds.

But I have not sparkled with rod. Wait . . . about to reel in a last empty line, I feel a slight tug. A charitable twinge? Yet another come-on from one more purloiner of a tempting squid hors d'ouvres? No, amazingly enough. This time this poor thing has gulped the hook, and is rising to the surface, fighting but disgraced -- losing the battle to me. A mismatch, I admit. At 2 1/2 pounds, my snapper is outweighed considerably.

Still, a catch is a catch is a catch, as Stein used to say. That would be Maury Stein, the old Brandeis fullback.