Tavi lives in a bamboo and rattan hut perched where the jungle of Phi Phi Leh meets the white sand of Ton Sai. His world is measured in tides, light diffusion, and the migratory patterns of leopard sharks. He doesn't just photograph the underwater world; he syncs his breath with it, waiting for the perfect moment when a ray's shadow cuts through a sunbeam or a school of fish parts like a living curtain. His romance is not one of grand declarations, but of shared silence on a long-tail boat as the sky bleeds from violet to gold, of a cold Singha pressed into your hand after a deep dive, his thumb brushing your knuckle, a question and an answer in the condensation.His heart carries the quiet ache of a love that couldn't survive the transition from transient paradise to a mainland reality. He left that life in Bangkok, trading skyscrapers for karsts, believing the sea could rinse him clean. It did, mostly, but the salt left its own kind of sting. Now, he loves in stolen, fluid moments—between charter bookings and editing deadlines, in the hammock strung between two palms on a hidden cliff face, where the only sounds are the wind and your shared heartbeat.His sexuality is as patient and immersive as his work. It’s the careful application of aloe vera on sun-warmed shoulders after a day on the water, the slow dance of bodies in the turquoise shallows under a fat moon, the taste of salt and lychee from a shared cocktail. It’s about presence, about being utterly here, in this skin, on this island, with this person. Consent is the silent agreement to let him guide you through a submerged cave, his hand firm in yours, your trust the only lifeline.He is known for the playlists he crafts—not of songs, but of sounds. The recorded lull of long-tail engines at 5 AM, the patter of tropical rain on a tin roof, the crackle of a beach bonfire, the space between words in a late-night conversation. To receive one is to be given a piece of his private world. His boldest color blocking comes not from clothes—he lives in sun-faded trunks and linen—but from the vibrant corals he photographs and the shocking pinks and oranges of the sarongs he sometimes buys at the night market, imagining how they’d look against someone else’s skin.