Champagne, Karaoke and the Great Phu Quoc Monsoon Show

There are beaches, and then there’s Sao Beach, the sort of place that makes you briefly consider cancelling your return flight and learning how to weave hammocks for a living. Powdery white sand, water so clear you could read your book through it, and a breeze that felt like being gently exhaled on by paradise itself.

We arrived scandalously early, practically the first on the beach, which meant prime lounger real estate. Two padded beds right by the bar for the grand total of £5, the same price as a lukewarm Costa coffee back home. Dana beamed. Bryan looked heroic, having “secured” them despite absolutely no competition.

A waiter appeared carrying two coconuts the size of rugby balls. He hacked the tops off with a machete, narrowly missing Bryan’s knee, and handed them over like trophies. “Fresh coconut water,” he said. “For the healthy life.” We sipped, feeling virtuous, hydrated, and terribly smug.

For about twenty minutes, it was bliss. Just the lap of gentle waves, the hum of cicadas, and the soft squeak of sand beneath our toes. Then, Brrrrrrrm!

The jet skis arrived.

Dozens of them, piloted by local lads apparently competing for the “Most Reckless in Shallow Water” award. They tore across the bay like caffeinated hornets, spraying tourists and small children alike. Dana glared. Bryan squinted. “Bit noisy,” he said, which is British for “utterly unbearable.” One jet ski skimmed past so close we could see the driver’s breakfast tattooed on his forearm.

Then a powerboat roared past towing a screaming paraglider. The tranquillity was officially dead.

Still, the sun held out. We’d expected rain by noon, but the weather gods kindly delayed it. Back at our room, we cracked open our bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rosé, a Heathrow impulse buy “for a special moment,” which apparently meant “Thursday night on the bed in our pants.” We toasted the day with champagne and local peanuts, which paired surprisingly well for something that cost £60 and 60p respectively.

Then it was time for karaoke.

We’d planned to visit Las Vegas Karaoke, classy, glitzy, probably full of disco balls. Our Grab driver shook his head. “No good,” he declared. “Happy Karaoke better.” And off we went, trusting the man with the wheel and possibly a secret life as Simon Cowell.

Happy Karaoke turned out to be a tiny neon-lit building that looked halfway between a dentist’s office and a nightclub. We were ushered into a private room the size of a large wardrobe. Two microphones, a television, and a speaker system so powerful it could probably restart a heart.

The hostess smiled sweetly. “What song you like?”

Bryan flicked through the touchscreen menu. Ninety per cent Vietnamese, nine per cent K-pop, one per cent Elton John’s Greatest Hits (Remixed Beyond Recognition).

We started with Dancing Queen, which, at 200 beats per minute, sounded like ABBA on Red Bull. Bryan tried Bohemian Rhapsody but gave up halfway through the guitar solo. Dana found Hallelujah, which she sang with such emotional commitment that even the waiter looked moved.

By the end, our singing abilities had levelled out perfectly — both dreadful, both enthusiastic, both entirely convinced we were brilliant.

An hour later, bill paid (£15, including drinks and mild hearing loss), we stepped outside. And straight into Noah’s Ark: The Live Experience.

Rain wasn’t falling — it was attacking. The street had become a full-blown river, water gushing from the sky as though someone had tipped over the South China Sea. Dana, ever pragmatic, said, “We can buy ponchos.” Bryan stared into the storm. “We’d need scuba gear.”

A heroic taxi driver appeared, headlights slicing through the downpour. He mounted the pavement like a pirate boarding a ship, flung open the doors, and yelled, “Quick!” We dived in as if escaping a disaster movie.

The journey home was half taxi, half submarine. Water lapped at the doors, scooters half-submerged, locals wading cheerfully as if this happened every Thursday night. Dana’s knuckles were white; Bryan filmed everything while laughing hysterically.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

By the time we reached our hotel, the streets were bone dry. Locals sipped coffee under twinkling fairy lights, utterly unfazed. “Did that just happen?” Bryan asked. Dana shrugged. “Vietnam,” she said. “Everything happens.”

We stumbled back to our room, damp, deaf, and delighted. Champagne, karaoke, and a tropical flood — not bad for a quiet night in.

Tomorrow, we’re aiming for something calmer. Which, knowing Vietnam, probably means jet skis again.