Into the Roaring Forties

The Extraordinary Expeditions of Geoff Macqueen and "Dinghy Spart"

Article and interview by Mat Conboy - Small Craft Tasmania

Between 2015 and 2025, while most small craft skippers were content with pottering around in protected waters, an Australian adventurer named Geoff Macqueen embarked on a most ambitious challenge in a 13-foot open sailing dinghy. These weren’t coastal jaunts; they were extraordinary expeditions into some of the most challenging waters on earth. Now, the story of his journeys is being released in the book, Cruising Wild.

Tasmania: A Treacherous Arena

Setting sail in Tasmanian waters is inherently challenging. Situated between the 40th and 44th parallel south, the island is positioned “smack bang” in line with the infamous Roaring Forties. This means that any maritime undertaking here demands meticulous planning, a robust vessel, and exceptional seamanship. The turbulent Bass Strait, which separates Tasmania from mainland Australia, is itself a notorious stretch of water.

Given these conditions, the idea of attempting to navigate these often ferocious and partially unsurveyed areas in a 13-foot open boat is baffling to the average sailor. Yet, Geoff Macqueen is anything but average.

I’ve had the privilege of sailing with Geoff and have learned a great deal from him. He possesses a coolly confident approach to life and a disarming modesty. There is an almost elemental, organic harmony when watching him at the helm of his home-built Welsford Houdini. No matter the conditions, he always appears to be exactly where he belongs.

The Philosophy of Small Craft

Crossing oceans in a large keelboat is a massive accomplishment, but tackling similar passages in a small boat requires a different magnitude of effort—it demands greater planning, more physical and psychological fortitude, and, often, immense patience. While an enormous volume of literature exists for “big boat” trips, accounts from the small craft perspective are regrettably scarce, perhaps due to the limited number of sailors with such extreme experience. The epic tales of small craft pioneers like Testa, Dye, Chiles, and Manry are cherished, but there is certainly room for more such adventures on our bookshelves.

This is where Macqueen’s new book comes in. I was delighted to discover that Geoff had meticulously journaled his voyages in Dinghy Spart and was planning a book. True to his understated nature, he sent me the manuscript for review just weeks later, and the launch of Cruising Wild was announced a month after that.

Rather than a traditional review, I believe the best preview of the book—and insight into the mindset of a man who would twice cross Bass Strait and then circumnavigate Tasmania in a 13-foot open dinghy—is to interview the adventurer himself.

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An Interview with Geoff Macqueen

Here are some questions I asked Geoff Macqueen, which offer a sneak peek into the insights found in Cruising Wild:

Having sailed much of the Australian coast in keelboats, how do the Tasmanian waters and their conditions specifically differ?

The major difference is in how dramatically the character of the Tasmanian coastline changes over relatively short distances. There’s the west coast: a rugged, windy and isolated place fully exposed to swell sweeping up from the Southern Ocean. In contrast, the east coast—a pretty stretch of coast with white beaches and colourful granite rock—feels almost sheltered. The Tasman Peninsula is something else altogether, with tall dolerite cliffs dropping straight into deep water. I think that’s the most spectacular part of the Australian coastline. The north coast is Bass Strait, which can get pretty wild, particularly when the strong currents, wind, and swell all conspire. But it’s also often calm and good for cruising.

Mainland Australia has enormous variability too, of course, but you don’t get such striking contrasts packed together.

On the downside, we’ve got to contend with the “roaring forties”—the persistent westerly winds that blow around the globe below 40 degrees south. I spend a lot more time in Tasmania waiting for conditions to improve than I did on mainland Australia.

You transitioned from keelboats to small craft. In the context of your adventures, what unique benefits do small craft offer that keelboats cannot, and vice versa?

In the Tasmanian context, the single biggest advantage of a dinghy for me has been the ability to drag the boat up on shore. When the anchorage is uncomfortably rolly, or I’m stuck waiting for the weather to improve, being able to get the boat off the water and camp on land has been a huge benefit. A dinghy’s shallow draft and the ability to stop and anchor in a greater variety of spots have also opened a much wider array of cruising destinations.

For keelboats, the greater comfort and safety at sea are obvious benefits. For me, though, keelboat cruising was part of a long-term live-aboard cruising life. Unless I were planning a long-term cruise, I don’t think I’d go back to it.

How often did you find yourself “stuck” waiting for the weather to improve during your round-Tasmania adventures?

In total, I spent 60 out of almost 100 days waiting for the weather to improve. The longest I waited was three weeks on the west coast. It was a remote wilderness coast, with no access apart from the sea, so there was nothing to do but wait it out.

Was food a concern? How did you pass the time?

I knew I ran the risk of getting stuck for a while, so I’d packed plenty of food for that trip—about 6-weeks worth—but I didn’t know how long it would be until the weather turned, so there was always a little food anxiety. Most days I’d go fishing, so I usually had a fish for dinner. That took some of the pressure off. Other than that, I’d just read books and take walks. There was no one around. It probably sounds idyllic, but I was ready to leave after a few days.

Your dinghy, Dinghy Spart, was largely “to plan” for most of your voyages, yet you’ve since made several changes. What are these modifications, and do you have more planned for the future?

The most significant change I’ve made has been to the sailing rig. The original sail was a standing lug sail, which I’ve since swapped for a balanced lug. The main reason was to shift the sail’s centre of effort forward a little to reduce the weather helm; on a windy day I used to get a tired steering arm after a full day at the tiller. It’s made a noticeable difference, so I’m happy with the change. I’ve also got the two reef points set deeper, which has helped to go windward in strong wind—something that used to be overly exciting on the sea.

The next project is to upgrade the electric motor. My current motor can only push the loaded boat at about three knots in calm conditions. There have been a few occasions where a bit more thrust would have made a dicey situation safer.

John Welsford described the Houdini as “serious.” What criteria constitute a “serious” dinghy in your definition?

At the top of the list, for me, the single most important criterion is the ability to recover from a capsize in rough conditions. The worst conditions in which a dinghy can be recovered from capsize is probably a good working definition of the boat’s sensible limits.

Beyond that, I like good stability, high sides (and/or side decks), a sea-kindly motion, space to sleep, and light enough for one person to haul up and down a beach—using rollers or a pulley system if necessary.

You capsized in the middle of Bass Strait, the notorious stretch of water separating Tasmania from mainland Australia. Was that your only capsize, and what caused it?

In the 10 years I’ve cruised in my Houdini, the Bass Strait capsize was the only one. I’ve never come close to another capsize. The capsize was caused by a large (perhaps “rogue”) wave. It was very steep, almost breaking. It knocked her down. There was no way to avoid it, and I was lucky the boat wasn’t rolled and dis-masted.

Given the importance you’ve placed on the ability to recover from capsize in rough conditions, how did your recovery from that capsize go?

It was actually touch-and-go for a little while. The Houdini is a big tub. She wallowed around in the rough sea with all the water in her, regularly scooping up more water. I eventually stabilised her by sheeting in the sail a bit, but I think the inflatable rollers I’d lashed under the gunwales were critical as well. Without those in place, it would have been much harder to recover her. Maybe impossible in those conditions.

What is your sleeping setup in Dinghy Spart?

She’s got a flat floor, a bit over two metres long, that provides plenty of space. At the end of a day’s sailing, I mop it dry with a sponge, then roll out a foam mat to sleep on. The centrecase is off-centre, which gives me two sleeping options: the wide spacious starboard side that I usually take, or the narrow port side where I can wedge against the centrecase so I’m not flopping around if the anchorage is rolly.

Was there ever a moment during your voyages when you wished you were in a bigger, more protected boat?

I can’t recall a moment on the water when I wished for a bigger boat. But while stuck on shore—absolutely. During the weeks I was stuck waiting for weather on the west coast, there were many times when it wasn’t safe to head out in the dinghy, but a yacht would have been fine. I suppose I might have traded a dinghy for a yacht if given the opportunity.

What has been the highlight of your voyages?

There were many, but if I’ve got to pick one, it’d be the first day heading out across Bass Strait. It was something I’d been anticipating for so long, and sailing off in a dinghy towards an empty horizon with the land disappearing behind was such an elemental experience. Ten years on, it’s the most satisfying and enduring memory of my sailing life.

What’s next for Geoff Macqueen?

For the time being, I’m done with those long, open-ended solo cruises. My dinghy cruising will be shorter trips that I can confidently plan around the forecast. I have one exception in mind, though: I’d love to tow Dinghy Spart up to Queensland and cruise from Yeppoon to the Whitsundays via the offshore islands. I was all set to head off for that trip a few years ago, but then Covid locked us down. It should be a fantastic trip on the southeast trade winds up there.

The final leg of Geoff’s circumnavigation of Tasmania is available on the Small Craft Tasmania YouTube Channel here:

The book Cruising Wild can be purchased on Amazon here.

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Excerpt from Cruising Wild

For several hours I sailed on with a healthy 15 knots of wind on the port side. My world had shrunk to the boat and her immediate surroundings, and it felt like we were flying along. I made good progress that evening, making up for the sluggish start that morning.

By midnight, I was knackered. After 18 hours at the tiller, I had covered about 60 miles, almost halfway across the Strait. It turned out I didn’t have Robert Manry’s endurance. My body was stiff, my right arm was tired from steering, my backside was sore, and I was nodding of. I decided to fold for the night.

I launched a drogue and attached it to the bow to keep Dinghy Spart pointing into the seas. A scan of the horizon revealed no lights from other ships. With my foam mat laid out on the foor, I draped the sleeping bag over myself. I wanted to be ready in an instant, if required, not cocooned inside a sleeping bag.

The regulations for preventing collisions at sea require you to maintain a lookout. Solo sailors typically observe this rule with a combination of technology and power naps interspersed with regular lookouts. Besides a radar reflector at the top of the mast, I was technologically unprepared. But being so tired, I had no difficulty taking short power naps. Throughout the night my alarm reliably woke me for my regular lookouts. I saw no lights from vessels. In fact, apart from a container ship rounding Wilson’s Promontory on the second day, I saw no other boats on the entire crossing.

A faint glow appeared in the eastern sky; it was time to get moving. I ate a breakfast bar and drank some warm vegetable soup from a thermos as Dinghy Spart rolled in the swell. Scanning the horizon, I was surprised to see land6 the faint grey impression of Curtis Island, thirty miles to the north. In my planning, I hadn’t looked closely at the islands dotted about the north of the Strait. It hadn’t occurred to me they’d be anything more than low, rocky mounds. I was wildly mistaken; Curtis Island is an enormous mound of rock rising 320 metres above the sea.

I retrieved the drogue, raised the sail, and headed off. The swell had increased to perhaps two and a half metres. The wind had increased to between fifteen and twenty knots. It was a chilly morning, so I wore multiple layers of thermals and fleece under a jacket and overpants. The tidal current and wind had pushed Dinghy Spart at least 7 miles eastward overnight, which wasn’t helpful. Now I had to point slightly closer to the wind which, in these conditions, meant enduring more showers of seawater thrown over me as the bow met the waves.

Just as the sun was rising, providing some welcome warmth, I saw a large wave approaching from the west. Its face was tall and steep, almost breaking. It differed completely from the normal swell rolling past. It dwarfed the larger swell sets, and it even seemed to move faster. I’d seen large waves before, and waves that momentarily superimposed to create alarming peaks, but I’d never seen one like this. •SCA•

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