A flash of silver in the water — the first squid of the night wriggles wildly as it’s pulled aboard, spraying ink like a painter’s brushstroke under the moonlight. VNS Photo Văn Châu

by Lê Văn Châu

The first light of dawn washes gently over the Gulf of Thailand, tinting the horizon with hues of pink and gold.

From the harbour of Dương Đông, the island’s main fishing port, a chorus of sounds fills the air – the growl of boat engines, the splash of waves against wooden hulls, and the distant chatter of men preparing for another day at sea.

For most visitors, Phú Quốc means luxury resorts, white sand beaches, and pepper farms.

But for those seeking to understand the island’s heart, there’s another side to discover – the life of its fishermen, whose rhythms have remained unchanged for generations.

Spending 24 hours on their boats, living and working as they do, reveals a world both harsh and deeply poetic.

Departure into the deep

At 5am, the docks of Dương Đông glow faintly under the streetlights. I meet my host for the day, Nguyễn Văn Hòa, a seasoned fisherman with over 30 years at sea.

His weathered hands grip the railings of a small, turquoise-painted wooden boat. “The sea does not forgive carelessness,” he says with a grin. “But it rewards those who respect it.”

We set off as the sun climbs, slicing through the mist. The wind is soft, the water calm. Around us, dozens of other boats dot the horizon, their colourful flags fluttering in the morning light.

Hòa pours us thick black Phú Quốc coffee from a dented thermos – the kind that tastes of burnt sugar and salt.

Breakfast is simple: sticky rice with fried anchovies and a slice of mango. As we eat, the island shrinks behind us, and the open sea stretches endlessly ahead.

Hòa’s teenage nephew, Tín, adjusts the nets while humming an old fishermen’s tune. “We listen to the sea before we cast,” Hòa says. “It speaks through the wind and the waves.”

By mid-morning, we reach a reef about 15 kilometres offshore. The men prepare to drop the nets, moving in seamless rhythm.

Each rope thrown, each knot tied, seems part of a wordless ritual passed down through generations.

As I help pull the ropes, my palms burn with salt and effort. The sea here glimmers green – a promise of life beneath the surface.

The slow hours

The sun climbs high, turning the sky white. The heat is fierce, and the crew takes turns resting in the shade of a canvas sail.

I lie back, rocked by the waves, feeling both small and infinite. There is no phone signal, no sound of engines, just the deep breathing of the sea.

Lunch is cooked right on deck: barracuda grilled over a small coal stove, seasoned only with chili and fish sauce.

The aroma mingles with the smell of salt and fuel. Hòa shares a story about his father, who once spent seven straight days at sea during a storm. “He said the sea teaches humility,” Hòa recalls quietly. “You can never conquer it – only coexist.”

Our meal, costing barely VNĐ50,000 (around US$2), feels more luxurious than any seafood platter served on shore.

Afterward, the men mend their nets. I watch as Hòa threads a curved wooden needle through the torn mesh, his movements patient and precise. “Every repaired net is a prayer for tomorrow’s catch,” he says.

As the afternoon drifts into early evening, the light softens. Seabirds swoop low across the waves, and the air cools.

The men laugh, tease one another, and share sips of green tea from a metal cup. The simplicity of their companionship feels timeless: no rush, no noise, just a shared existence with the sea.

After hours of patience and quiet waves, a sudden tug — the line bends, and a fish gleams, proof that the sea rewards those who wait. VNS Photo Văn Châu

Dancing lights on the water

By dusk, we head toward a cluster of boats near An Thới, the southern tip of the island. This is where the most anticipated part of the night begins – câu mực đêm, or night squid fishing.

The sea transforms into a vast mirror, reflecting hundreds of glowing lamps suspended from the boats, each one shimmering like a star fallen to the water’s surface.

We switch on our own green lamps, their beams slicing through the darkness. The squids, curious creatures of the night, are drawn to the light.

Using a simple bamboo rod and a colourful lure shaped like a shrimp, I join the fishermen in rhythmic casting.

At first, I pull up nothing. The others chuckle kindly. Then, suddenly, a strong but quick tug – a squid! It thrashes wildly, spraying ink across my arm as I lift it aboard.

The men cheer, and one of them grills it immediately over open flame. The flesh turns golden, curling slightly, sizzling in its own juices.

We dip it in chilli salt and eat it hot, straight from the grill. Sweet, smoky, and impossibly fresh – it tastes like the ocean itself.

In town, a plate of grilled squid like this sells for about VNĐ120,000 ($4.70), but catching it with your own hands under the stars feels priceless.

For hours, we fish, the sea alive with the soft glow of dozens of boats. The night air is cool, filled with laughter and the rhythmic splash of lines hitting water.

When the lamps are switched off at midnight, silence returns – deep and enveloping.

Beneath the waves

Our next adventure takes us below the surface. Equipped with small spearguns and torches, we dive into the dark sea for bắn cá đêm, or night spearfishing. The first sensation is cold – then stillness. The ocean at night feels like another world entirely.

Coral reefs bloom faintly under our flashlights, and small schools of fish drift by, half-asleep. Hòa moves with practiced grace, pointing toward a large grouper hiding among rocks.

With a quick motion, he aims and fires. The fish jerks, then stills. His movements are calm, almost reverent. “Never take more than you need,” he whispers later, once we surface.

I try aiming for a parrotfish but miss entirely, earning good-natured laughter from the crew.

Despite my clumsy attempts, the experience is intoxicating – to float weightless in the dark, surrounded by life and silence.

For 24 hours, this small wooden boat becomes more than transport — it’s a kitchen, shelter, and companion, rocking gently with every breath of the Phú Quốc sea. VNS Photo Văn Châu

Homecoming and reflection

We return to the harbour just as the horizon blushes pink again. Fishing boats glide in, engines sputtering, decks heavy with the night’s catch.

The air fills with the scent of diesel and salt. Onshore, women and children wait to help unload fish – mackerel, snapper, squid, and crabs – destined for the island’s morning markets.

Buyers shout out prices; deals are struck. Our catch earns around VNĐ2 million ($78), split among the crew. It’s modest, yet enough to support their families for a few days.

Hòa wipes his brow, smiling. “We don’t fish to get rich,” he says. “We fish because the sea is our home.”

As I step onto the dock, my body aches from the effort, but my heart feels light. The experience has stripped away the noise of daily life, leaving only the essentials – wind, salt, water, and human endurance.

A different kind of luxury

To live as a fisherman, even for just 24 hours, is to understand the balance between survival and serenity.

The ocean tests you, but it also heals. In every splash of the wave, every gleam of a squid under the light, lies the story of Phú Quốc – a place where nature and livelihood intertwine.

This is not the Phú Quốc of infinity pools and beach bars. It is the island’s soul – rough, beautiful, and honest.

When the sea breeze hits your face, carrying the faint scent of fish and wood smoke, you realize that this – not the resorts – is the true luxury of the island.

If You Go

Authentic “fisherman-for-a-day” experiences are offered by several local operators in Dương Đông and An Thới, priced between VNĐ700,000 and VNĐ1,200,000 ($27–46) per person.

Packages typically include meals, boat trips, squid fishing, and spearfishing guidance with safety equipment provided.

Bring sunscreen, motion-sickness tablets, and a light jacket for the cool night air. And be ready – for 24 hours, you’ll trade comfort for something far rarer: the humbling beauty of life lived by the rhythm of the sea. — VNS