This beach, named, for some reason, Playa Lorenzo, has the added advantage that practically no one, outside the locals, can find it; the road in is pitted with holes and it winds about forever before finally delivering one to the sand and sea. Thus no hotels, tourists, surfers, signs, litter, hawkers and noisy radios.

This is the fourth in a series of dispatches from our correspondent in coastal Mexico. Read the previous article in the series, "Henry Miller, hot pants and ants."

There are gulls, petrels and pelicans moving about above and, somewhere below, snapper, lobsters, sailfish, squid and, possibly, killer whales. On the beach, there's a fine collection of pale driftwood left lying about from last fall's hurricane. A motley collection of hermit crabs called "soldados" -- soldiers -- go in and out of the shadows cast by the driftwood and the rocks at the edge of the sea.

There is no one here except for us and the occasional family from the nearby village, using the beach as a road to and from home.

Mario and Felipe haul me and my wheelchair down to one of the tidal pools where they dump me into the water and then go off to kick the soccer ball around on the beach. Maruga and Linda set up the tables nearby, under the palm, heating the tortillas and filling them with goat cheese and avocado. The kids chase gulls up and down the beach and make noise.

I'm lying here, in my natural hot tub, watching the waves bash their heads against the rocks, watching my reflection in the water, watching the nearby soldados, wondering where they picked up their ugly little shells to live in for the duration.

The men are shouting and kicking and making soccer cheers and there is the aroma of tortillas being heated on the open fire. A dozen or so pelicans dip through the waves near me and the sea -- "the everfolding neverending sea" (Joyce) -- rises and falls with a rhythm that's been around since long before you and I came along, and which will, undoubtedly, continue long after we ship out.

A man on a palomino passes by, riding bareback. He looks like Ricky Martin. Beautiful, beautiful, I think. Here we are miles from civilization, and Ricky Martin has elected to come visit us.

Minnows nibble my toes, fingers and unmentionables. Raul kicks the ball past José and Felipe, a dozen or so terns veer off to the south, Linda brings me a cheese taco and a bit of melon and sits to talk as the wind ruffles her long, flowing, jet-black hair.

The kids join us, start to work on a sand castle, building sand castles as people have, over the ages, always built sand castles -- dip the hand into the wet mud, and then let it drip out between fingers until the sand drops build up so high that they topple over so you can start all over again.

The sun warms me; makes me forget all the cold nights of my cold past.

Mario kicks another goal, and the palomino comes trotting back by us. This time Ricky Martin has been joined by Selena, sitting behind him, arms around him, back, presumably, from the dead. Perhaps they will serenade us together.

The kids start to fight, cry, make up and go to sleep under the palm tree. Linda and Maruga put the food away, Raul falls asleep next to the kids and the sun begins to arc slowly down, down toward its nesting place over to the west, somewhere near China.

This, I think, sleepily, rocking back and forth, is it.

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THE WITCH'S MAGIC

My friends and workers, the families I have come to know in Puerto Perdido -- outside of education, background, upbringing, culture, language, interests, family life and religion -- are not that much different than the rest of us.

There are, however, on occasion, slight differences that pop up. For instance, recently I bought some fruit trees -- grapefruit, tangerines and lemon. I wanted to plant them at once, but worker Juan tells me we have to wait until the full moon. Otherwise, they will not grow and bear fruit.

The full moon has many powers. Juan also said that the army ants that invade house and home only do so when there has been a fight, when someone in the house is angry. But, he says, to compensate, they will not sting during the full moon.

When one indulges the beast with two backs -- one must never allow conception during the full moon. The child that results will be hairy, and will, possibly, even turn out to be a wolf.

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