“What did you say the water temperature is?” my buddy Steve Kurczy called out.

“Thirty-eight degrees!”

“And how long …”

He didn’t have to finish the question.

“Oh, about 15 minutes, maybe 20,” I replied. “Depends on your body fat.”

Actually, I was a little off. I later looked it up and learned that the United States Search and Rescue Task Force estimates a human submersed in water 32.5 to 40 degrees can last 15 to 30 minutes until exhaustion or unconsciousness, and then survive up to 90 minutes.

“No worries,” I said.

Steve’s queries were reasonable, considering that he and I were paddling a tandem kayak in Fishers Island Sound the other day, when 15-mph gusts kicked up whitecaps on 2-3-foot seas in tidal rips. Every so often a wave broke over the bow of our boat, more or less deflected by our spray skirts.

Steve is an exceptional marathon runner and rock climber, and though somewhat less experienced in a kayak – especially in mid-winter – he is always game for adventure. We’ve kayaked through The Race a couple times as part of 18-mile paddles around Fishers Island, albeit in summer.

My confidence in taking him out was buoyed considerably by the fact we were accompanied by two other friends in a tandem, Phil Warner and Ian Frenkel, who are expert paddlers trained in open-water rescue. Plus, my 22-foot vessel, with a 27-inch beam, is as stable as an aircraft carrier, even in much rougher conditions.

Last week’s paddle was not going to be a circumnavigation of Fishers – loyal readers may recall my account of Phil and Ian’s harrowing, impromptu paddle around the island in December that I luckily cut short because of a time constraint.

Our more modest itinerary this time: Launch from Esker Point Beach in Noank and paddle about 5 miles southeast to Hungry Point near the eastern tip of Fishers, and then paddle west along the island’s shore for a few miles before recrossing the sound and returning to Noank.

Over the years I’ve made this voyage dozens of times in winter in order to experience the Sound in exquisite isolation from powerboats, sailboats, fishing boats, ferries and other vessels that ply the popular waterway in summer, and also, as I’ve chronicled in the past, to observe migratory seals. Scores of the marine mammals swim here from the Gulf of Maine and points north in the fall and linger until spring.

Like most people, Steve had only seen seals at an aquarium, which pales by comparison to watching them in the wild.

“Do you think we’ll see one?” he asked moments after the four of us set out at a brisk pace.

“Absolutely,” I promised.

Not 10 minutes later, as we exited Palmer Cove and steered south of Whaleback Rock, Phil cried, “There’s one! Two o’clock!” A shiny, dark object bobbed among the waves.

A moment later: “Ohh, wait. It’s only a buoy …”

The tide had begun its flood a couple hours earlier, clashing with a steady breeze from the west. Local mariners are familiar with various shoals that create chop in the Sound, and we shifted to a more southerly course to avoid getting knocked about in quartering waves.

Less than a mile from the island, though, seas flattened so we headed east.

There’s a big difference in how I paddle compared to Phil and Ian. When I notice white water I usually steer around it, while those two make a beeline for anything that looks rough and challenging.

At one point I heard hooting and yipping behind me, and turned in time to see them surfing on a wave, the bow of their boat bearing down on my stern.

They skimmed past, missing me by about 6 inches.

“That was a good one!” Ian shouted.

I held my course for Hungry Point a few hundred yards ahead, eyes glued for seals.

“I think I see one hauled out on the northernmost rock,” I announced.

Sure enough the 4-foot-long pinniped stretched out with arched back, forming a curved shape that sailors of yore mistook for mermaids.

We stopped paddling, rafted our kayaks together, and let the wind push us forward.

The seal slowly slid into the water, and now we could see several other shiny heads poking above the surface.

“Look at them all!” Steve exclaimed, hurriedly reaching for his camera. Soon dozens of seals surrounded us, some swimming as close as 10 feet before diving under with a splash.

But as I’ve mentioned in the past, trying to photograph a seal from a kayak is like playing Whack-A-Mole at an amusement park arcade – their heads pop up only for an instant.

Though it’s tempting to interpret their behavior as idle curiosity, more likely the seals were making sure we didn’t pose a threat or weren’t horning in on their fishing grounds.

Either way our presence was potentially disruptive – the U.S. Marine Mammal Protection Act advises against lingering among seals – so after a minute or two we resumed paddling, crossing East Harbor in the direction of the Beautyrest Castle at the island’s tip.

Well before reaching the appropriately named Seal Rocks just at the western entrance to Wicopessett Passage, though, we realized the breeze had come up. It was time to head back.

We did not pause at Hungry Point but proceeded past Brooks Point into Chocomount Cove, seeking lee from a stiffening headwind.

“Looks a little bumpy out there,” Phil said, gazing at the Sound we would have to cross. But after a few minutes the seas appeared to calm.

“That’s our window,” I said.

“Let’s go,” Phil agreed.

Along the Connecticut shore – Fishers Island lies in New York waters –familiar landmarks beckoned: Stonington Borough, Lord’s Point, Latimer Point, Masons Island, Ram Island, and finally Morgan Point in Noank at the mouth of the Mystic River.

Halfway across the sound the wind and waves reinvigorated, but we all managed to stay upright.

“That was fun,” Phil said, as we paddled beneath the Groton Long Point Road bridge across Palmer Cove.

“Sporting,” I agreed. “Wouldn’t want it to be too calm.”

For Steve, the challenge of a winter paddle was icing on the cake. The best part, of course, was seeing seals in their native habitat.