The Family Who Runs an Off‑Grid Island on the Edge of the Earth
On Uepi in the Solomon Islands, Jace, his partner, their three kids, and his parents power, feed, and protect themselves with systems they built from scratch. The ocean is abundant—and unforgiving—and every choice has consequences now.
They Trade Suburbs for a Barrier Reef
Morning comes as a green wall of palms hums and the lagoon goes glassy. The family moves barefoot: coffee on a cliff, kids pointing to manta shadows sliding past the drop-off.
Lunch starts with spears and snorkels. They fan out over coral heads, breath steady, a silver flash twitching into a stringer that will hit the fire by noon.
They split coconuts on driftwood with two clean strikes; sweet water spills down small chins. The beach smoke smells like salt and lime.
Some days the ocean interrupts everything—Risso’s dolphins, pilot whales, even a blue whale once. “Drop everything,” Jace says, and they do.
He Grew Up Here. She Chose It.
Jace’s parents arrived in the early ’80s and stayed long enough to raise a son who knows every pass and pressure ridge by heart. He calls this place home like other people say their street name.
She came on a medical trip, a pharmacist handing out tablets on wooden benches, and left with a long-distance plan that turned into a life. A year became ten and three kids.
Getting here means big plane, small plane, then a skiff skipping across the world’s longest saltwater lagoon—thirty minutes to the edge of the map.
They Build a House the Ocean Can’t Forget
For seven years they squeezed into a leaf house with two rooms and a life poured into every corner. Then the new home rose from jagged limestone, looking straight into 2,000 meters of blue.
They chose hardwoods cut and milled on the island. Tongue-and-groove floors pass hand to hand through the timber workshop—every door, louver blade, and frame made from scratch.
In the shade, staff teach staff to weave a thatch roof from sago palm, fingers moving fast, a dying art stitched back into place. It’s cooler than tin and quiet in the rain.
The workshop buzzes: jointer, rip saw, drop saw. A rough log becomes a table where homework happens and fish are cleaned.
They Power, Store, and Fix Everything Themselves
There’s no grid here, so they became one. Diesel generators thrum under the palms, three units with built-in redundancy because “out here” means no second chances. Solar panels are coming, a pivot they’ve waited years to make.
Rain is their reservoir. Gutters feed tanks tucked into clearings and under floors—poly, timber-lined, concrete—250,000 liters moving by gravity and pumps to taps and kettles.
One tap for drinking runs through filters down to one micron, then UV. It tastes like cloud and roof tin, clean and earned.
Waste slips through septic and careful chemistry. They buy soaps like they buy spare parts—thinking about what happens next and where it all goes.
On a pole above the jungle, a dish stares at the sky. The internet arrives as a beam. It shrinks distances enough to call a doctor or a grandma.
Food Comes From Salt, Mist, and Ingenuity
Fishers bring parrotfish and trevally to the dock, still shivering with color. The reef feeds the resort and the family, and the rule is simple: take care of what feeds you.
Soil is coral dust, so they grow salads in pipes and troughs. Their homemade hydroponics—decades of tinkering—keeps basil fragrant and lettuce crisp without a single clog.
Bananas, papaya, bush limes fill the gaps, and what won’t grow here comes across the lagoon from volcanic soil and market gardens they rely on by name.
Dry goods arrive in rhythm: a sack of rice from town, a six-month shipment of nuts and seeds from abroad, and the pantry shelves show the plan like a map.
They Plan for Bad Days Before They Happen
The medical cupboard sits open on purpose: bandages, antibiotics, a pulse oximeter, kids’ sunscreen lined up next to adult worries.
They act early. Boats, flights, contingencies—if something turns, they move before it becomes a story told in past tense.
They teach the children the ocean’s rules: admire coneshells with eyes only, shuffle in the shallows, and notice the jellyfish that don’t want to be noticed.
Storms roll hard and fast. They watch the barometer and the horizon; when the earth shakes somewhere far away, they climb to higher ground though tsunamis rarely reach this side.
Isolation Hits, So They Build Community Anyway
The hardest part isn’t weather. It’s the quiet after dinner when everyone you love is a continent away and the generator is the only sound.
During lockdowns, the faces stopped coming. They turned a camera on and started talking to the world—old guests, new friends, anyone who loves wild water and the idea of a life you make yourself.
Sometimes they leave to recalibrate. Sometimes a year slips by. Either way, the ocean is there when they return, unchanged and always changing.
The Kids Grow Up With Fins and Books
School happens at a long table with shells for paperweights. A distance program, a helper on island, and recess is a reef where clownfish defend their gardens.
They ask the kids often if they want to try Australia. For now, the answer is a chorus: we live here. This is home.
Mary, their Solomon mother, braids hair and packs boat snacks. Her daughter races the twins through dappled forest paths. The grandparents teach knots and stories.
Work Means Sharing What Saved Them
They run a tiny resort—six beach houses tucked into trees—built for people who chase reefs and quiet. Most arrive for scuba, some stay for the snorkeling they didn’t know could change them.
Staff from nearby villages move like a practiced crew: dive shop, yard, carpentry, housekeeping. Fifty paychecks ripple through communities across the lagoon.
A skiff idles at the dock at dawn. Tanks clink. Someone laughs, and beneath the hull the water burns electric blue.
They Choose the Difficult Good
Remote life costs more in planning and less in impulse. Packages take months. Gratitude lasts longer.
At sunset, the new house glows under its leaf roof. The kids count fruit bats in the sky. The generators hum—for now. Solar is coming. So is tomorrow’s tide.
It’s not easy. It is theirs. And that, out here, is everything.
