The thunder of tumbling water roared as I gripped my paddle the other day, waiting my turn to plunge over a 4-foot drop at a broken dam on the Salmon River in East Hampton.

I could see kayaking pal Ian Frenkel about 50 yards ahead approach a chute close to the west bank and then disappear amid churning froth.

Meanwhile, Phil Warner, who already had successfully navigated the falls, waited downstream to capture the drama on video, and most important, to help fish us out of the turbulent, freezing water if we capsized and couldn’t execute an Eskimo roll.

One second, two seconds, three seconds … finally, I spotted Ian’s helmet, followed by his upright back and the still-afloat kayak, bobbing safely past the cataract. Time to go.

Cautiously I pushed free of an eddy and let the powerful current drag me toward the vortex. No turning back now.

Aaaagh! What the …. ! A bleeping mayfly, freshly hatched, flew directly into my left eye! At this critical juncture I couldn’t let go of the paddle with one hand to brush it away, so cursed, squeezed the eye shut and surged into a boiling maelstrom.

The broken dam forms a three-part waterfall staircase – the first, a steep but fairly straightforward V that draws paddlers to the second drop, a somewhat trickier haystack formed by a submerged boulder.

Here, paddlers have a choice – steer left or right and risk broaching, or take a deep breath and hope there’s enough water to risk running straight ahead. If you chose this route you then must plow through a 2-foot standing wave followed by a potential hydraulic, or “keeper.”

While scouting the rapid earlier Phil suggested swerving left, but I remembered flipping while attempting that maneuver years earlier and announced, “I’m either going straight or right.”

As it turned out, I didn’t have much choice.

Whoosh! Over the first drop in a heartbeat. Whoosh! Straight ahead. Whoosh! Through the standing wave, burying me waist deep in churning water (thank heavens for secure spray skirts.)

With a quick low brace and whoop of delight I scooted safely ashore.

A Salmon River excursion, which includes a 3-mile stretch down one of Connecticut’s purest, most sublime waterways, has been an annual rite of passage for decades, highlighted by the broken dam plunge a quarter-mile or so north of our takeout at the Comstock covered bridge near the Colchester border on Route 16.

I’ve successfully navigated the falls dozens of times but also have flipped once or twice – more damaging to the ego than to the body as long as you wear a life jacket and helmet.

Southern New England’s short whitewater season peaks in early spring, propelled by melting snow and ice, and heavy rains. While some rivers, such as the Farmington and Housatonic, have sufficient high water for paddling through the summer and fall, the Salmon usually gets pretty “bony” by the end of April. To check water flow on the Salmon and other rivers through the country, visit www.americanwhitewater.org

The Salmon, fueled by the Jeremy and Blackledge tributaries, flows through a pristine state forest alongside a dirt road that ordinarily provides easy access but on our visit remained closed because of thick mud.

After parking one car at the downstream takeout we loaded our three kayaks on two cars and took a circuitous route via the paved Bull Hill Road at our launch site on River Road. We could have added a couple miles to the trip by putting in on the Blackledge River off Route 2 in Marlborough, which joins the Salmon above the broken dam, but I’m more familiar with the River Road launch. I also wanted to save time for a second plunge over the dam.

The first couple miles are basically fast water with a few Class II rapids – on a scale of I to VI – but this early in the season you have to be mindful of “strainers,” or fallen trees with branches that can snag and imperil a snagged paddler.

Soon the river narrows and flows through more challenging “rock gardens” and over ledges.

Unlike the 19-foot Kevlar sea kayak equipped with a rudder for better tracking and turning that I typically use for flatwater and ocean paddling, my 8-foot plastic boat is designed for pirouetting through rapids.

After an hour or so of paddling, during which we passed several catch-and-release fishermen getting ready for the April 8 opening of the trout season, we finally saw the dam ahead and pulled ashore.

“Let’s get out and check it out one more time,” I suggested, but Ian, always impetuous, disagreed.

“Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go now!”

Phil nodded his head and volunteered to go first.

Without a moment’s hesitation he paddled toward the breach and confidently maneuvered through the torrent, followed by Ian and then me.

I barely had caught my breath before Ian pulled his boat ashore.

“Let’s do it again!” he exclaimed, so we lugged our boats along the rocky, muddy, briar-filled bank a hundred yards or so above the dam and repeated the thrill.

This time I made it without a fly stuck in my eye.

Nothing succeeds like excess: Ian and I returned to the Salmon a few days later, along with Carl Astor, an experienced sea kayaker who had never navigated river rapids.

Before putting our boats in the water we scouted the broken dam waterfall, and Carl’s eyes widened.

“No way,” he said.

“The drop isn’t as scary as it looks,” I replied. “Let’s put in below the falls and you can get your feet wet, so to speak.” I’ve paddled with Carl through The Race and Plum Gut, two of the most challenging channels in the Northeast, as well as in 8-foot seas in the Atlantic Ocean off Long Island’s Breezy Point, and knew he would rise to the occasion.

In addition, Ian, who has exceptional paddling skills, provided a floating tutorial on bracing and ferrying, and soon Carl was navigating with grace and confidence.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

So we paddled ashore, retrieved Ian’s car, loaded all three boats onto the roof rack, and drove about a quarter-mile above the dam.

Ian led the way, and once again I watched him disappear for a few seconds before popping up downstream. I thought about going next so I could watch Carl’s expression as he dropped over the cataract, but before I could say a word he pushed away from shore and paddled toward.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoops ...  a slight, unintentional swerve to the left, but Carl made a quick recovery and remained upright.

Moments later, after surging down the falls, I paddled alongside them.

Carl was still grinning.

“Not bad for a maiden voyage,” I said. “Did your life flash in front of you?”

Carl shook his head.

“It was great!” he exclaimed.