Most of the time I’m reasonably scrupulous about abiding by government regulations.

I don’t spit on the sidewalk – except if a giant luna moth happened to flutter into my open mouth.

I don’t hunt deer or fish for trout out of season – mainly because I don’t do either “sport” in season.

And I don’t toss empty beer cans onto the highway, even when no cops are driving by.

But every so often when some mindless bureaucrat imposes a rule that makes no sense and interferes with an enjoyable pursuit, I’m tempted to flout the law – after first determining that I wouldn’t be causing anybody harm, and most important, that I wouldn’t get caught.

A few years ago, while running for the first time on a trail in White Plains, N.Y., a flimsy fence and “Danger! Keep Out!” sign blocked the way because one tiny section had washed away in a flood. Nearby, a pile of planks left by a repair crew lay on the ground.

I had two choices: Go back the way I came and miss the opportunity to explore new ground, or take matters into my own hands.

It took all of 10 minutes to scale the fence, toss a plank over an eroded ditch and proceed on my merry way. No harm, no foul.

Another time I wasn’t quite so lucky. My buddy Dan Bendor and I were kayaking down the Hudson River and came upon a line of floats marking a restricted zone near the Indian Point Nuclear Power Station.

Paddling around the floats would have taken us half a mile out of the way, so cutting through one corner of the zone – still nowhere near the plant, mind you – seemed like a reasonable plan.

We hadn’t gone more than 10 yards before a siren sounded and a patrol boat piloted by a uniformed guard bearing a large, automatic weapon bore down on us at about 50 mph.

I’ve made it a practice to cooperate fully with heavily armed authorities, so when the guard ordered Dan and me to paddle out of the forbidden water NOW we didn’t discuss options, and didn’t say another word even though the patrol boat remained inches off our beam during our retreat.

Anyway, I thought about those episodes when I read Judy Benson’s article in The Day this week describing new signs at the main entrance to the state property known as Seaside in Waterford notifying visitors that the park closes at sunset except for fishing, and that swimming is not allowed.

First of all, why should someone with a fishing pole be permitted access at night an another person with a trekking pole be kicked out?

But mostly I was irked by the no-swimming edict.

I understand that Seaside is a new acquisition for the state Department of Energy and Environmental Protection, which hasn’t had time to prepare a “master plan.” (By the way, do you ever notice that government agencies always need to develop a “master plan,” which sounds ominously like a Machiavellian plot to take over the world?)

Anyway, DEEP hasn’t hired lifeguards, but has brought in security guards to enforce the new regulations. One resident told reporter Benson that a guard informed her that while swimming isn’t permitted, people could at least wade up to their knees.

Memo to DEEP: How about putting up a sign, “Swim at your own risk”?

I’ve swum at Seaside a few times over the years after arriving by kayak. It’s a beautiful beach and I’m delighted the state has seen fit to acquire the property and convert it into a park.

I’m not suggesting Seaside become another Rocky Neck in East Lyme or Hammonasset in Madison, with bathhouses, pavilions and boardwalks that make them beach meccas for thousands on summer weekends.

I also understand that not every stretch of waterfront is suitable for swimming. But why deprive people of a simple, low-impact pleasure?

It’s not as if the state would be opening the door to Jet-Skis, dune buggies and parasailing rides. Let ’em swim, until authorities figure out what activities and amenities the park should support and contain.