Off-Season Wonders in Thailand

We arrive by speedboat, greeted by a moody, overcast sky that feels more captivating than dreary. After three chaotic days in Bangkok—amid tuk-tuks, canals, and the constant buzz of city life—we're more than ready to escape to the islands. Koh Yao Yai calls to us with its promise of peace.

At the pier, we chat with an Australian couple as we wait for our ride. I'm with my friend Susan, the trip’s organizer, who has a better sense of what to expect from the island than I do. Yet, both of us are wide-eyed as we drive to our resort. Susan says the lush scenery reminds her of Arkansas, while I compare it to the Bahamas. But really, Koh Yao Yai is like no other—a remote island in southern Thailand, with stilted homes and rows of rubber trees.

By conventional travel standards, Susan and I probably shouldn’t be here. It’s July, in what’s known as ‘low season,’ or ‘rainy season,’ or even ‘monsoon season,’ when frequent rain and high humidity make the heat feel even more intense. One travel guide even warns that ‘Southern Thailand is the worst place to visit during the monsoon.’ But for us, this ‘off-season’ is not a deterrent—it’s an opportunity to explore a quieter, more serene Thailand, when the crowds are fewer and our schedules allow it.

We arrive at the Koh Yao Yai Village resort, where a fast-moving porter takes our bags to one of just six thatched villas by the beach. The spacious cabana, with its wide windows and an outdoor shower that could belong in a shampoo commercial, is a welcome retreat. During peak season, these villas are booked months in advance, but we managed to secure one just four weeks ago. The biggest perk of off-season travel? Access to popular spots at a great price. We're paying just $140 a night; in high season, these villas go for $235.

During Thailand's high season, typically from November to March, prices can skyrocket—sometimes even doubling compared to the off-season. International tourism dips between April and October, though there’s a slight uptick in visitors during the summer months. Certain regions, like the Gulf of Thailand just east of Koh Yao Yai, experience more noticeable fluctuations, with a dry season from February to October. Ultimately, the weather directly influences the flow of tourism: the sunnier it is, the more crowded the streets. According to the Thai Tourism Minister, 60% of hotel rooms are currently vacant. Susan and I are arriving at a time of significant uncertainty in the industry: just weeks after our visit, officials will announce plans to address a massive COVID-related workforce shortage.

A fierce storm rolls over Koh Yao Yai on our first night. Along with the heavy rain, there's a strange scratching noise that catches my attention as I try to sleep. At first, I assume it's an animal, but soon realize it's just palm fronds brushing against the roof. Eventually, the rhythmic sound becomes oddly comforting, and I drift off to sleep.

The following morning greets us with clear skies and bright sunshine. Seizing the perfect weather, Susan and I head to Hat Laem Haad, a narrow strip of sand that gradually vanishes with the incoming tide. We attempt to capture the scene with our cameras, but no lens can truly convey the surreal beauty of the distant limestone islands, their tree-covered peaks floating above the turquoise water like ethereal icebergs.

Back at the resort pool, we take full advantage of the swim-up bar. 'We love rainy season!' we joke to each other, mockingly gesturing at the endless gray sky. Below us, Phang Nga Bay stretches out, its seabed revealed by the low tide, gleaming under the late-afternoon sun. Susan and I feel like we've uncovered a hidden travel hack—a secret way to enjoy a vacation with almost no one else around. Sure, it rained yesterday, and maybe it will rain again tomorrow. But for travelers willing to embrace a bit of unpredictability, the rewards—everything around us—seem more than worth it.

The next day is just as sunny, so Susan and I rent bikes and set off to explore the northern part of the island. As we ride, we pass trays of silver anchovies drying in the equatorial heat—'ching chang,' they’re called. These tiny fish are used in everything from local snacks to the fermented fish sauce that gives many Thai dishes their distinct, earthy flavor.

As we continue on our ride, we encounter no other tourists, just a few locals passing by. A man on a motorbike shouts, 'Fifteen minutes!' but I can’t quite make out his meaning—perhaps he's estimating how long it will take us to reach the beach. True enough, in under fifteen minutes, we arrive at Son Bay, a quieter stretch of sand. While the beach is less dramatic than the one at our resort, it's just as beautiful. Evergreen trees bend over the shoreline, and tiny, translucent crabs scurry along with the rhythm of the waves.

We sit for a while, chatting and snacking on dried banana slices. When we stand to leave, Susan is startled to find a black cat lurking right behind her. She lets out a surprised laugh, and we carefully make our way back to our bikes, the cat hissing at us with a bored, grumpy expression.

Later that evening, much to Susan's dismay, we encounter more cats at the resort's beach bar while having dinner. Our waiter, a kind man named Anthony, joins us for a chat. We ask him about the area, and he tells us about Bird’s Nest Island, which dominates the view from the restaurant. He explains that nests made from bird saliva are harvested there and turned into a luxury dish known as 'bird’s nest soup,' a prized delicacy in Chinese culture.

The fact that Anthony has time to chat with us is another perk of traveling during the off-season—only two other tables are occupied. He shares stories about his wife, his children, and his rubber tree farm.

I ask him, 'Do you like living on Koh Yao Yai?'

'Yes,' he replies, grinning. 'Yes, I do.'

Heavy rain is predicted for Saturday, the third day of our stay in Koh Yao Yai, but Susan and I don’t even consider canceling our boat tour to the neighboring islands. Rainy weather is just part of traveling in the off-season, and our readiness for it has made us more adaptable—almost excited—to experience the unpredictability that would normally stress us out during the high season.

Nil, our loquacious guide, leads us to the pier where we board a traditional wooden longtail boat. (These boats are a hallmark of Southeast Asia, known for their tall prows and propellers that extend from long tiller poles.) Nil informs us that two separate storms are heading straight for Hong Island and the surrounding islands, where we're headed. Susan and I laugh nervously, scanning the horizon which is already darkening. The contrast between the bright sun and the incoming storm is striking—like a split-screen effect in the sky.

The storms hit us quickly, so we retreat to the boat's shelter, peering out through the Plexiglas windows at the spectacle unfolding around us. Despite the chaos, the islands remain as enchanting as ever. They seem to shift and sway with the boat, as if they're moving with us through the storm.

We seek shelter in a weathered cave on the edge of one of the islands. The captain ties the boat to two stalactites hanging from the cave's jagged ceiling. Once the storm weakens and we head to another nearby island, Susan and I dive into the water. We search for Nemo fish, carefully steer clear of sea urchins, and brush away the prickling sensation on our skin. The only other guide boat eventually leaves the area, and once again, we’re entirely alone—no other tourists, no locals, just us.

At Koh Lao Lading, one of the region's more visited islands, we join eight other boats anchored at a small beach that sits against a towering limestone cliff.

“So many boats!” Susan exclaims, but Nil just shakes his head.

“So many boats?” Nil grins. “No, you should see it in peak season.”

At Hong Island, our final stop, we ascend a long metal staircase to the peak. Although I’ve been hiking my whole life, I’m taken aback by how unsettling the drop below us feels. Maybe it’s the clouds swirling in the immense, frothy sky that make it all seem so much more intense.

Even so, the clouds themselves are beautiful. They cast a cool, slate-gray hue over the landscape, giving us a version of the dramatic, haunting beauty Susan and I first encountered when we arrived. This isn’t the uncomplicated beauty of a sunny day. It’s something much more intriguing—something appealing precisely because it is different. This is off-season beauty: a blend of the expected and the unexpected, the perfect and the flawed, the comfortable and the challenging. Of course, I’d love to see this view under a bright sun. But sunshine isn’t the only way to truly experience Koh Yao Yai—or any place, for that matter.

Ultimately, this is the real reward of off-season travel: not just the empty beaches or the affordable prices, but a mindset of openness. When “perfection” isn’t attainable, you’re not disappointed by its absence; instead, you open yourself to different kinds of beauty: to the timeless stone islands rising from the water, to the sky, and to the swirling gray clouds that drift and pour. Our timing in Thailand, arriving during the rainy season, was purely a matter of chance. But what if we made decisions like these more intentionally? What if we embraced the “off-season” as an “on-season,” seeking out destinations at times when most people avoid them? Our journeys might be richer, more surprising, and more in tune with the world in all its wondrous diversity.

The time to leave has arrived. Susan and I make our way down the stairs to Hong Beach, where we stand alone, basking in a quiet, blissful moment of shared contentment.