I am standing at an ocean lookout grandly titled "The Edge of the World." But it lives up to the name. Head due west out here across the Southern Ocean and you won’t hit land until Argentina, over 11,000 km and two oceans away.

The mouth of a broad river has stained the sea black, as a large unruly swell collapses across the sand bar. Crazily oversized driftwood, entire mature trees, bleached white by the sun and salt, are deposited on the beaches in piles like matchsticks. A howling onshore and bitter cold assaults me with the legendary force of the Roaring 40s.

A poem has been immortalised on a bronze plaque bolted to a rock in front of me, reminding me of my fleeting mortality in the face of these ancient, timeless elements.

"I cast my pebble on to the shore of Eternity
To be washed by the Ocean of Time,
It has shape form and substance
It is me
One day I will be no more
But my pebble will remain here
Mute witness for the aeons
That today I came and stood
At the edge of the world" it tells me.

Thanks Brian Inder, whoever you are. I was feeling quite small and insignificant enough as it was, thanks very much. To compound matters, a friendly park ranger greets me with those immortal words, "You should have been here yesterday." Of course. The rivermouth had been firing not 24 hours earlier.

I have dragged my family to Tasmania's rugged North-west in search of the region's famed raw ocean surf. We have made camp in a deserted National Park camping ground that has a strange, intangible eeriness to it. The family have colds. There is no rideable surf. The onshore is relentless. I have no clue to the whereabouts of any local surf spots. This is not a high point of the trip so far.

Remarkably, I do have mobile phone reception and so I find myself, during a fruitless drive around the surrounding coast, able to watch the final day of the Quiksilver Pro at Snapper Rocks. It is a surreal experience, taking in the hype and clamour of the pro circus from this remote region.

I've earned a leave pass for the morning and drive around for three hours without getting wet. I return to a forlorn camp and my wife is incredulous that I've been gone half the morning without surfing. At home I could have driven to Byron and back, surfed the Pass for an hour, in less time.

Two nights is enough. The family are damp and cold and require some basic creature comforts – a warm shower, a laundry, flush toilets, a café – and so we retreat to the impossibly quaint charm of Stanley, only 60 minutes' drive but a world away. A caravan park never looked so good.

The Tassie leg has got off to an inauspicious start. But I can recommend the scallop pies at the Swinging Anchor Café, and the Boag's brewery's fine Wizard Smith Ale.

Swells are lining up and roaring through down south and a call is made to head that way. On an island that can be traversed in four hours driving, and receive swell from almost every point on the compass, the options quickly become overwhelming. Wish us luck.

TOTAL DISTANCE TRAVELLED: 3430 KM

SURF: Three to six feet onshore rivermouth.

LOCAL TIP: Free camping is available at Green Point, but is usually crowded and windswept. A range of National Park camp grounds are usually much less busy a short drive south, for as little as $6 a night.

WORTHWHILE TOURIST ATTRACTION: The Tarkine Forest Experience offers an 11 metre ride down a winding metal slide. The unfortunately titled Dismal Swamp is actual an amazing Blackwood Forest inside the large sinkhole in the southern hemisphere.

DOMESTIC HARMONY TIP: The North-West is not the most family-friendly destination. Base yourself in the quaint coastal village of Stanley and your family will be happy, while you can take day trips in search of surf.