A platoon of small boats chugs out past the bay for the night’s fishing as the sun takes a bow along the crimson horizon. We can hear the men and boys calling to each other as they chart their course further from shore, into the deep, dark waters of the Gulf of Thailand.

We’re flopped on one of the resort’s beachside rattan sofas, sipping icy mojitos and watching this slice of life while we make plans for the next day. The barman comes by to light the torches on the beach as aromas of fresh grilled squid and prawns start to drift towards us. The clatter of dishes and cutlery in the restaurant signals the dinner hour.

“We should see a bit more of the island,” says Jon, without too much interest.

“Well,” I reply, gently shaking my nearly empty glass, encouraging the ice cubes to release a bit more mojito magic, “we could go into Duong Dong in the morning and still get back in time for the ladies.”

After three busy weeks touring mainland Vietnam, our last stop is here on Phu Quoc – a teardrop shaped tropical island tucked into an archipelago off the southern tip of Cambodia. Mango Bay, a small, low-key beach resort on the secluded side of the island, is our home for the next few days.

‘The ladies’ are two sweet young women who come to the beach every day offering their services as masseuses. Jon and I are their enthusiastic clients. Although we’ve been taking in the people, culture, history and beauty of this spectacular country, it seems the theme of our travels has been massage, in all its various forms. In Hanoi, we discovered the wonders of the 30-minute foot massage (a misnomer, since it also included a shoulder and leg massage). In Hoi An we spent an afternoon being pampered from head to toe in a private spa suite, all for the cost of a steak dinner. And in Hue, we learned what ‘massage massage’ means (another misnomer).

By the time we arrived on Phu Quoc, we thought our massage tour was over. But on our first day here, as we sat lounging on the beach, the two ladies appeared and discretely asked the sun-worshipping female guests if they were interested in a beach massage. I noticed they only spoke to the women, and remarked to Jon that this was a good sign – no massage massage here!

They didn’t have any takers on this day, but when they approached us, we eagerly accepted. We were hooked after the first session and in a mix of broken English and sign language, agreed to meet again the next day (and the next), same time. The ladies were thrilled, and so were we.

We follow a simple routine: an early pre-breakfast walk along the nearly deserted beach, looking for seashells and watching the fishermen sort their nets and push their boats out for the morning’s catch. A few of Phu Quoc’s namesake dogs – who seem to function as the island’s friendly relations ambassadors – usually arrive to escort us on our walk.

After breakfast and another hike, we grab our towels and go to the beach to wait for the ladies. After exchanging smiles and greetings, they spread out two tropical coloured silk covered cushions on the sand for us to lay on. For an hour and a half, we revel in their expert kneading, until our muscles feel like rubber. I close my eyes and drift off as the waves lap gently against the shore and the sea breezes rustle the canopy of palms above us. All this hedonism for $3.00 US each – a typical daily wage for many Vietnamese. Big spenders that we are, we top up this amount by a dollar or two.

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As we start in on another pre-dinner mojito, we agree on a plan to hire a motorcycle to explore the island and be back at Mango Bay in time for our lunch hour rendezvous at the beach.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast, we ride out from the resort to tour the island. Most of the road system is unpaved and ochre red dirt roads and rock-strewn paths wind around the island. Motorcycles and the occasional car churn up dust clouds as they pass bicycles, wandering cows, chickens and people. We pass through small fishing villages and the occasional resort lining the coves and beaches. Duang Dong, the island’s main town, turns out to be easy to get through – there’s not much action and even less to cater to any tourism. After buying a supply of their famous black pepper and fish sauce to take home, we easily make it back to Mango Bay before noon.

This is our last day on Phu Quoc, so as the ladies pack up the silk fabric and cushions, we press several bills into their reluctant hands, trying to express our appreciation for their superb work. There are bows, and thank yous, and smiles. The ladies leave, and Jon and I jump in the water for swim before lunch.

As we step out of the ocean and head back to the beach, I notice one of the masseuses approaching. She is holding something in her hands. When we’re close, and she’s facing me, she presents it to me in both hands, like a gift. Which it is. It’s a whole, peeled pomelo (like an Asian grapefruit), partially sectioned. This is their way of thanking us for our generosity. I am touched beyond words.

It is a gesture of extraordinary grace, and one that leaves me speechless and humbled. I know immediately that of all the things we’ve seen and done this past three weeks, this is the memory that will come to mind when people ask about our trip. Moments like this keep travelers searching out new places and different cultures, saving money for airfare rather than that new roof.

Over cocktails at the bar that evening, in conversation with one of Mango Bay’s managers, we tell him about the beach massage ladies and their gift to us. He explains that it is more than just fruit we were given.

“In Asia,” he explains, “the pomelo represents family, prosperity, and good health.”

He tells us of plans to increase the number of bungalows and install a full service spa. I think about the ladies, and wonder about their future as Mango Bay, and Phu Quoc, outgrow the need for unsanctioned beach masseuses.

After dinner, I fire off a couple of last minute postcards to friends back home.

“Wish you were here,” I write. “There is a rare, serene magic here on Phu Quoc. The beaches are secluded, the water is sparkling, and the pomelos are divine.”