Out in the Yellow Sea, some 60 nautical miles off the coast of Lianyungang, three small islands—Che niu Shan, Da Shan and Ping Shan—sit like pearls on a wide blue necklace. They are quiet places of wind, waves and scrub, but also the stage for a very public performance of state presence: a handful of militia and other personnel who live seasonally on the rocks to watch the sea.
One of those men, Jiang Quan, has been posted to the islands for six years. He is an ordinary militia member by training, but his account of long rotations, interrupted reliefs and a commitment captured in his motto—"guarding the island is guarding home, national security makes family secure"—offers a revealing window into how China sustains low‑profile sovereignty on peripheral maritime terrain. Reaching the islands requires a three‑hour, often uncomfortable boat ride from the mainland; changeovers are meant to be every 15 days but are frequently delayed by weather.
The three islands are widely described in Chinese media as a "Yellow Sea forward post," a characterization made vivid in earlier national attention to the dedication of figures such as the late Wang Jicai. For Beijing, maintaining a permanent human imprint on tiny offshore features is part practical coastguard and militia work, and part symbolic statecraft, broadcasting resolve and continuity even where the landscape is punishing.
Jiang’s rotation record illustrates the operational stresses. When colleagues were suddenly unable to reach their posts, he shifted between islands to fill gaps and ended up spending 45 consecutive days away from home; on another occasion typhoons extended a relief cycle to almost two months. He has missed major family moments—most painfully when his wife went into premature labour while he was on duty—and relies on prearranged plans with his wife and the support of local leaders to manage such emergencies.
Living conditions compound the human strain. Between April 2024 and July 2025, photovoltaic equipment on one island failed and the outposts resorted to intermittent diesel generation. With priority given to refrigeration, lighting came from diesel lamps and air conditioning and fans were unusable; summer nights could reach the high 20s and 30s Celsius, which Jiang describes as "sauna nights" of stifling heat and fitful sleep.
Their daily work extends beyond watchkeeping. The islands host important seabird colonies, so the garrisoners record avian activity and rescue injured protected birds. They also clear marine debris, check equipment and log hydro‑meteorological data, responsibilities that blend environmental stewardship with routine safety and surveillance tasks.
Isolation is a constant test. Communications are intermittent, fresh water and foodstuffs are limited, and spare parts corrode quickly in salt air. To occupy idle hours Jiang reads old books until the pages yellow and experiments with small vegetable plots—small domestic acts that help blunt the psychological edge of separation.
The logistical facts—dependency on weather for relief and resupply, vulnerabilities in local power production, and persistent erosion and corrosion—are not merely anecdotal. They underline the practical costs of sustaining a human presence on marginal maritime terrain and the importance of resilient infrastructure, reliable communications and contingency planning for rotations.
Seen broadly, the story of Jiang and his peers is both human and strategic. China’s use of militia members and small permanent crews to maintain footholds on offshore islands is a low‑cost, high‑visibility approach to asserting sovereign authority in littoral spaces. The personal sacrifices highlighted in Jiang’s account are also leveraged domestically to cultivate a narrative of civic duty and national unity, even as they point to operational challenges Beijing will need to address if it intends to keep these outposts viable over the long run.