By Bud Collins, Globe Staff, 2/11/2001

CAPE PALLISER, New Zealand - Life in the moist lane looks splendid.

		PAST 'ANYWHERE' COLUMNS
			A yard with 10,000 sheep  A town of rocks and roses  Waiotapu's mud geyser

Maybe not quite the ``Wonderful Life'' of James Stewart in the venerable film. But gazing upon this carefree, frolicking crowd at the local Bath & Racket Club - surfing, fishing, making love and noise - you'd probably give it your seal of approval.

Certainly it gets the approval of seals, whose lifestyle it is. Lazing on rocks or shuckin' and jivin' in the rough, cool sea that whams against the southern tip of New Zealand's North Island, the congregation of thousands of southern fur seals is having a fine time.

Their exclusive, restricted club (sorry, seals only), featuring lots of baths as well as barking, hooting, screeching racket, is favored by virtual privacy. Cape Palliser, presided over by a red-banded, white brick lighthouse, is a long way down a desolate, pitted gravel road, past gray cliffs that seem fortifications and dark, jagged pyramids of volcanic rock.

``It's worth the trouble to see those seals,'' Victoria Shaw had said. She was right. At Wharekauhau Station, a vast sheep ranch with sumptuous guest cottages, Victoria is our landlady, managing the hospitality end of the business. ``A drive of a couple of hours. But you go through Martinborough, a nice little town known for its wine and olives, and Lake Ferry before the driving gets bumpy.''

Martinborough did look pleasant, offering a small tennis club, six grass courts, and a wooden clubhouse with veranda. A sign said you could contact Mr. D. Kershaw at his shop in the one-block business district to make arrangements to play. But it was lunch time, and the thought of fishermen's nets was more appealing than tennis nets. Fortified by good fish and chips at The Flying Fish, served at an outdoor table by James Hutton, the proprietor, we pressed on.

As the road deteriorated, and the landscape grew bleak, the sheep scattered about on one side were smudged and unkempt-looking, covered by dust and dirt hurled at them by the wind. On the other side, the land dropped off to a narrow black sand beach that was assaulted by vigorous surf. Presently the coast was barren and rocky - seals' paradise. The rocks, jutting in shapes and sizes that resemble a medieval city of stone, are slammed by waves that sound like cannonading by a besieging army.

But boulders that seem curiously to be moving are revealed, at a closer look, as a menagerie in motion, a show that could be called seals-a-poppin'. Poppin' out all over this hard, rumpled place, a lichen-streaked rock garden that is a playground for these hefty, imposing aquatic mammals. The seals of this 'hood come in all sizes, from newborn pups to 6-foot bulls tossing their tons around.

Their color is - what else? - that dull shade known as seal brown. Prominent whiskers and red-rimmed goggle eyes evoke Popeye's burger-chomping pal, Wimpy. They could use deodorant, but luckily we're upwind, and the aroma isn't any worse than a fraternity house the morning after a party.

Don't bring a beach ball. Careers as circus performers don't seem to have crossed their untrained minds. But it's a circus, nonetheless, untented and uninhibited, as they show themselves off as a salty gang of incredible athletes.

Jaunty slobs, bellying across the rocks in floppy-yet-graceful style, they appear seals on wheels, traveling at unexpected speed. You understand how they swim so brilliantly with four flippers, one on either side, two at the tail end. But those short flippers on blobby bodies are shock absorbers, surprisingly making them quick land-rovers, too. Easing up and over jagged surfaces, in and out of crevices and chasms, they amble as though on extremities coated with Velcro.

Flippety-flopping with amazing balance, waddling and wobbling down to water's edge, they plunge in to dine on seafood and ride the creamy-topped, kale green breakers while black-backed gulls hover, gazing enviously. At rest, carefree, close-together nappers, they spread across the lot as a gigantic sealskin carpet.

It isn't all fun. Bulls jostling other bulls, growling and baring menacing teeth, will fight to keep would-be rockpile Romeos away from their harems. ``These rocks ain't big enough for both of us, buddy!'' is the bullish theme of a combatant determined to keep his 15 or 20 cow-babes to himself.

One of them, peering at my friend, Aurelio, gives her a proud look that says, ``Isn't this a coat to die for?'' Unfortunately innumerable seals have died to yield their coats, but these New Zealanders are protected by law.

Sequestered in clefts, pups snuggling next to mom are gurgling and mewling at dinnertime. Maybe, when grown, they'll reciprocate by bringing her a flounder on Mother's Day.

Bud Collins/Anywhere appears every other week on these pages.