Now, Koh Samui *does*  have a private airport, and as I’d seen before, it’s nothing short of amazing — like a luxury resort with a runway attached.  The only catch? It’s basically a Bangkok Airways monopoly.

To save some serious coin, I flew not from Bangkok itself but from U-Tapao (a.k.a. Pattaya’s airport), which offered a much better deal. My driver got me there with plenty of time to spare… and naturally, because this is Thailand, he happened to "drop by and see a friend" along the way and this friend knew a friend who would be my friend.  You know how that goes, one of those mysteriously casual, totally unplanned-but-suspiciously-timed visits.

When we finally rolled up to U-Tapao, I noticed how wonderfully empty it was. Practically a ghost terminal. As I stepped up to the check-in counter, they asked:  "Koh Samui?" 

"Yes," I replied — it was, in fact, the only flight going out that afternoon.

What I didn’t expect was the aircraft itself.  This would be my first time flying on a turbo-prop.  No jet engines.  Just twin spinning propellers that looked like they came off a World War II bomber.

Oh boy. I was in for a treat.

As the little aircraft taxied toward the runway, I found myself thinking:“Does this thing actually fly?”It looked like a glorified lawnmower with wings.  But not only did it fly — it soared. Smoothly, even. No rattling, no drama. Just a calm, humming ascent.

It cruised at a lower altitude than commercial jets, probably to keep out of the bigger boys’ airspace, which worked to my advantage. I was treated to a stunning aerial view of the Gulf of Thailand — emerald waters, coral reefs, and tiny uninhabited islands I never even knew existed. Picture-perfect, scattered like green pearls in the sea.

Then, just like that, we made a gentle, almost elegant landing into Koh Samui. From my window seat, I could actually spot Rob’s house tucked into the greenery — the kind of surreal moment where your life below and your journey above suddenly line up.

As if to complete the experience with a flourish, Bangkok Airways rolled out golf carts on the tarmac to shuttle us from the plane to the terminal. Not buses.  Not stairs.  Golf carts.  Classy and quirky — just like Samui itself.

I walked out of the terminal like it was a boutique hotel. No glass boxes, no endless corridors — just straight into the open air. Dodging the taxi touts was surprisingly easy. I barely had to shrug. A few hundred meters down the road, I flagged a local motorbike taxi and negotiated the ride to Rob’s place for 100 baht. Fair deal, smooth ride.

A woman walked up and casually asked if I had any cigarettes. What can I say — this was the opposite of Bangkok, and I liked it already. There was something loose, unfiltered, and unpretentious about it all.

And just like that, I rolled back into Rob’s glorious pad — part resort, part refuge, part secret agent safe house. It had now become my de facto base in Thailand, my “don’t ask questions, just breathe and chill” sanctuary. This was my third return, and each time it felt more like home.

Rob is the kind of guy who quietly restores your faith in humanity. We met way back during my teaching days in China, and it was clear even then:  he saw things others didn’t.   He has this uncanny observational radar, this intuitive grasp of how things work (or don’t).

What sets Rob apart is that he doesn’t just point out problems — he fixes them.  No fuss, no virtue signaling, no QR-code glory.  Just action.  And he expects nothing in return.  Naturally, the local people respected that. In China, they’d often whisper to him: “Thank you so much. I wish I could do that” Because of course, they couldn't. Not without risking the wrath of the Party.

That put Rob squarely in the CCP’s crosshairs more than once. After all, it’s a regime that claims to make life better while stifling those who actually do. Rob saw through that facade. Eventually, he left China just as I did.

He cashed out wisely, bought himself a sleek, serene sanctuary on Koh Samui, and reinvented his life there. And now? He’s still Rob. Still spotting the inefficiencies, still solving problems, still making life a little smoother for everyone around him — whether it’s a local Thai friend or a weary traveler like me passing through for the third time. He doesn’t need fanfare. He just does.

That’s why I kept looking for ways to repay him. After all, Rob had become one of the key anchors of this entire midnight run.  He was someone who brought grounding, clarity, and peace when I needed it the most. When everything else felt unstable, especially the so-called "community" in Bangkok which was in fact a joke.  Rob was the exact opposite: consistent, unpretentious, and real.

I offered to do the dishes, bring meals, run errands — anything. But he always waved it off.  That’s just who he is.  Acts of generosity were simply part of his rhythm, not currency in some social transaction. And that made him even more admirable.

To me, Rob wasn’t just a friend — he became one of the key pillars of this whole journey, one of the few who gave without asking and showed what peace after the storm could really look like. Watching him live out his own version of retirement stirred something in me. It made the idea feel attainable, even close. And maybe for the first time in a while, I could see the shape of that dream forming for myself too.