Settled on chaise lounges in the warmth of the sun, we watch as a battalion of hermit crabs in knobbly shells humps and bumps over ripples in the sand, marching inland; they freeze in place as I stretch my arms. A fashion show of butterflies sails from the jungle, across the sand of the half-moon bay and to the rocky headland. A flotilla of flying fish flashes past the bay like an extremely localized rain shower. As if escaping a frying pan, they barely touch the shimmering surface before skittering into the air again.

Halfway to the horizon, five dolphins arc gracefully in unison.

With a steady supply of limonadas (fresh-squeezed limeade), my husband, Eric, and I ooh and aah at each flash of color, each extravagant dance.

We stayed in a thatched-roof casita reached by a wooden bridge.

We are staying a skiff’s ride south of the busy Pacific Ocean resort town of Puerto Vallarta, at Las Majahuitas, which the Mexico Boutique Hotels’ online profile describes in three simple, telling words: secluded, casual, primitive.

Secluded is right; the hotel is situated miles from civilization on its own golden-sand bay, its back to the shady jungle. The only ways in and out are by boat or by a half-day hike up the foliage-cloaked valley to the nearest village.

Casual means that even the manager is usually barefoot, and the most formal clothing might be a floral sarong for the evening meal. Primitive? Definitely. The hotel is off the power grid. Solar power only allows for the running of weak bedside lights, so candlelight is de rigueur, and “air conditioning” means the occasional slight evening breeze.

But these words only skim the surface of our experience at Las Majahuitas, a collection of eight mostly adobe casitas linked by sand paths, that serve as the home base for outdoor adventures — snorkeling, swimming, kayaking and guided hikes.

Accommodations range from a rambling treetop perch overlooking the bay to a thatched hut on stilts reachable by a bridge over a small stream. It’s this Robinson Crusoe–inspired open-air dwelling that we settle into after a breezy boat ride.

I’m charmed by the hurricane lanterns positioned on posts beneath snarling jaguar masks, which at night will remind me of the simple childhood pleasure of holding a flashlight beneath your chin to scare a sibling. A four-foot-long (1.2 m) fake crocodile, jaws open, lounges in front of a couple of leather bucket-style chairs, appearing to be just relaxing before it slides down into the lagoon beyond the railing.

In the bathroom, a gourd serves as the showerhead. And a selection of damp and moldering novels on a desk near the mosquito-netted bed give us a pretty good idea of the climate with one glance.

Eric grabs a beach towel, water bottle and book, and heads out the door. “What do you want to do first?” I ask hopefully before he escapes out the door. He tosses me an ironic look and says, “Relax.” Hmmm … not one of my proclivities.

OK, I’ll give it a try. I grab my book, towel, sun hat, and sunglasses, and follow Eric across the bridge, through the breezeway of the main building, and out to the beach, where bright white umbrellas sashay two-by-two across the gently sloping sand, shading chaise lounges.