So a rabbi and a psychiatrist are kayaking in the ocean when a giant wave crashes over them and knocks the rabbi unconscious.

The psychiatrist manages to pull the rabbi ashore, where he regains consciousness.

“Rabbi! Rabbi! Are you comfortable?”

“I make a living.”

Ba-dum-dum.

This is a variation of a joke I told 13 years ago at the start an article about my circumnavigation of Long Island by kayak, accompanied by Rabbi Carl Astor of New London and Dr. Dan Bendor of Waterford, inveterate jokesters who made the 303-mile, 13-day expedition seem more like Shecky Green meets Henny Youngman on the high seas.

The other day the Three Musketeers, as Dan likes to call us, reunited for a more modest day voyage, a 28-mile paddle from New London around Plum Island to Long Island’s Orient Point and back, taking us through a couple of the region’s most challenging passages, the Sluiceway and Plum Gut.

It would be my second white-knuckle paddle in as many weeks. Earlier, paddling with my pal Ian Frenkel, we survived a near calamitous “bongo slide” through The Race while circumnavigating Fishers Island. I’ll get to that wild ride after I finish describing the Orient Point trip.

With Carl paddling a single kayak and Dan and me in a tandem, we left New London just north of Ocean Beach shortly after 10 a.m. midway through flood tide. A gentle north breeze helped propel us toward Plum Island some 9 miles due south.

“Perfect conditions!” I exclaimed as we passed to the west of Great Gull Island. Approaching the eastern tip of Plum, though, the calm water began to roil. Uh-oh.

The three of us have made this voyage several times over the years, and I always forget about the Sluiceway, a shallow, shoal-ridden passage that produces confused chop and crosscurrents even on placid days.

Soon I was cursing up a storm while trying to stay upright. I focused on reaching smoother water about a half-mile off the coast of Plum, because landing on the restricted island, the site of a government animal-disease research lab, was not an option.

“I can’t wait to get out of this mess,” I called ahead to Dan, who paddled in the bow.

“Once we’re clear we’ll be able to ride the flood all the way to Orient,” he replied.

Wrong.

The Sluiceway also features a nasty surprise – an eddy that runs in the opposite direction of the tide.

I became aware of this after glancing at my Global Positioning System watch, which kept track of our pace.

We had been scooting along between 4 and 5 mph, and I expected to see that number shoot up when we rounded Plum Island and began heading west toward Orient.

Much to my chagrin, though, our speed dipped to 3 mph, then 2, then 1.

What the …?

Nearby I could see Carl also struggling to make forward progress.

“We’ve got to go further out,” Dan implored, so we put our backs into it.

After 15 minutes of hard paddling we edged free of the eddy and our speed rose to 2, 3, 4 and 5 mph. Phew!

By the time we surged along the edge of the Gut we were rocketing along at 7-plus, and I kept my eyes peeled for ferries plying to and from New London. Vessels with less control have the right of way, but mostly common sense tells you not to paddle across the bow of a large powerboat, so we steered well clear of the channel.

We beached at the northern tip of Orient, tarrying just long enough to gobble down lunch we’d packed in dry bags. No dawdling, though – once the tide started ebbing we had to be in our kayaks and well north of the Gut to avoid getting sucked back into the vortex. A couple women walking a dog came over to help us launch.

“Orient Point angels,” Dan said, as they graciously steadied our boats.

Three hours later we were back on terra firma, weary but elated.

“Let’s go back,” I joked.

                                                                       •   •   •

The Fishers Island circumnavigation is one of my favorite paddles, a near-18-mile voyage that passes picturesque islands on north shore facing Connecticut and exquisite beaches and dunes on the south shore facing the Atlantic. A paddle around Fishers requires careful timing with the tides, as well as tricky maneuvering through The Race at the island’s west end and Wicopesset Passage to the east.

Ian and I have made the trip dozens of times, but this paddle featured something new: Accompaniment by friends Rick and Laura Ely of Stonington in their 420 sailboat, a sporty sailing dinghy that rewards skilled seamanship.

“Going around Fishers has been on my bucket list for a long time,” Rick said, adding that he was happy to have our kayak along – not exactly abeam for much of the voyage, but at least in sight and certainly in spirit.

A stiff southwest breeze kicked up whitecaps on Fishers Island Sound when we launched from Esker Point in Noank, building sloppy waves between North and South Dumpling against the tail end of a flooding tide. Several times Ian and I had to pump water that surged in despite our spray skirts. We could see Rick and Laura tacking half a mile east.

“It’s going to be interesting going through The Race, even close to slack” I said.

By the time we passed Silver Eel Cove they caught up and we simultaneously entered The Race, a rocky, shipwreck-strewn stretch that can churn up 6-foot, confused waves during tide changes. Rick and Laura steered about 100 yards from shore, while Ian and I, paddling a tandem, hugged the coast.

“Here we go!” I shouted, and instantly realized we were in trouble. A rogue wave caught the stern of our 22-foot kayak and spun us 90 degrees.

“We’re broaching!” Ian exclaimed.

The wave continued to propel us sideways, a dreaded position known as a “bongo slide,” often a prelude to capsizing.

“Brace! Brace!” we shouted in unison.

Ian and I jabbed our paddles into the wave and leaned into a wall of water. For a sickening instant the boat teetered, then miraculously jolted upright. I jammed on the rudder pedal and the bow straightened out.

Five seconds later, with great whoops, we squirted free of the Race like a spit watermelon seed.

Rick and Laura, who had been tossed around like a cork, managed to set their spinnaker and sailed alongside.

“Well, that was fun!” I lied.

With a tailwind and by this time ebbing tide, the four of us shot past Wilderness Point. I was tempted to pull ashore for a respite at Isabella Beach but realized any delay would make the current stronger through Wicopesset, so we forged ahead.

Mercifully, the passage from the ocean to the sound at East Point was much less chaotic than The Race, but now we were fighting a headwind and ebbing tide from Hungry Point all the way back to Esker. While Ian and I took a straight diagonal across the sound, Rick and Laura had to tack more than a dozen times.

Our kayak voyage measured 17.75 miles; the sailboat journey extended more than 26.

Rick was exultant.

“That was awesome!” he gushed.

“Always a thrill,” I agreed.

Given a choice, though, I’d rather skip the bongo slide.