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The "Mexican Malibu" is the echo of legend and a wave of fact. It represents the search for unspoiled perfection that was started by vagabond California surfers more than 50 years ago.

CRUISING along the swerving, mountainous roads of Mexico’s western coast, past trees and vines, blue lagoons and scattered wildflowers, Goffredo Marcaccini stops his Jeep and thrusts his head out the window. “Ahhh,” he croons, inhaling the morning air. “The smell of the earth! Nice, like the scent of a woman!” His reverie is short-lived. Farther along, he encounters roadside debris, including a bright blue Pepsi can. “Modern man,” he says, wincing, “is the cancer of the earth. We are only here to destroy.”

SAN FRANCISCO, Mexico - Maybe it was the impossibly bright orange sunset over the Pacific Ocean, the sound of waves crashing onto the shore, briefly disturbing the peace and the silence around us. Or it may have been the eclectic crowd - old hippies, yuppies and the ultrarich - enjoying the isolated innocence on an unspoiled Mexican beach.