The longtail cuts its engine a dozen meters from shore, and you wade the last stretch through bathwater shallows that barely reach your knees. Koh Mai Si is less a destination than an interruption of open water—a sliver of sand anchored by weathered granite, fringed by casuarina pines whose needles hiss in the offshore breeze. No bungalows. No beach bars. Just the rhythmic drag of small waves reshaping the tideline.
“One of the Gulf's few uninhabited islets where you'll beach-hop utterly alone.”
Wide white-sand beach with footprints
You drop your mask into knee-deep water and find schools of sergeant majors threading between brain coral the size of basketballs. The reef here hugs the eastern flank of the island, close enough that you can stand, adjust your mask, and duck back under without swimming more than a few strokes. Between dives, you sprawl on sand still cool from the morning shade, watching white-bellied sea eagles tilt overhead.
By mid-afternoon the sun turns the granite headlands to bronze, and the longtail captain gestures from his cigarette perch that it's time to leave. You rinse your feet in the shallows one last time, catching the silhouette of Koh Kut's forested spine across the channel, already planning which island comes next.
