As the three of us paddled up the Mystic River last Saturday, an enormous flock of Canada geese took off in panicky distress in the same direction, only to splash down less than 50 yards ahead.

It wasn’t so much a flock as an avian version of the 82nd Airborne Division, comprised of virtually every Canada goose in New England.

Thirty seconds later, we bore down again on the honking birds, which flapped skyward with another cacophonous clangor. They momentarily dropped back en masse right in front of us, and then flushed anew when we re-approached.

“Hey, you crazy birds!” I called out. “If you just take off the other way, you won’t have to keep flying away from us!”

Did they listen? Of course not. Maybe they were thinking the same thing about us.

The geese, a couple of swans and a scattering of gulls were the only signs of life my son, Tom, our friend, Robin Francis, and I encountered on a blustery morning during a 10.4-mile excursion down and back up the river that included a couple short detours.

Ordinarily we would have considered continuing past Noank and paddling five miles across Fishers Island Sound to Hungry Point to check out the winter colony of migratory harbor seals. A gusty northwest wind and temperature hovering around freezing, though, persuaded us to stay closer to shore.

We launched from River Road near the I-95 overpass on the Groton side, propelled by a tailwind and ebb tide.

In less than a mile, we crossed the river to Mystic Seaport Museum to inspect Mayflower II, a replica of the 17th-century vessel that carried the Pilgrims from England to the New World in 1620. Expertly restored over the past five years at the Seaport’s H.B. duPont Preservation Shipyard, the ship will return next spring to the Plimoth Plantation living-history museum in Plymouth, Mass., for the 400th anniversary of the original Mayflower’s celebrated voyage.

I’m no naval architect, but peering up at the ungainly, square aft-castle that towers 30 feet above the deck made me happy I hadn’t been among the 102 passengers who endured that hellacious, stormy crossing.

“I can’t imagine anything so top-heavy not tipping over in a crosswind,” I said. “I’d rather be in an 18-foot kayak.”

Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but accounts of the Mayflower’s 1620 trip suggest it was almost as unpleasant as the Royal Caribbean Oasis of the Seas’ cruise to Jamaica earlier this year, when an outbreak of norovirus spread among 277 passengers and crew.

Happily, Tom, Robin and I suffered no such affliction and also managed to stay upright.

After passing beneath the downtown Mystic drawbridge and Amtrak railroad bridge, we reached Willow Point in West Mystic, where a decision awaited: head east around Masons Island, or continue south toward Noank.

I offered an idea.

“Let’s poke into Beebe Cove,” I suggested.

“Sounds good,” Tom replied.

“Wherever you want,” Robin agreed.

In the decades I’ve been paddling in southeastern Connecticut, somehow I’d never kayaked into this shallow, hidden lagoon just west of Sixpenny Island.

After ducking under a low railroad bridge at the northern end, the only vessels on the water, we entered the broad cove, where gracious waterfront homes line the shore.

“A great time to visit,” I said.

Paddlers pretty much have the water to themselves anywhere this time of year. Having to bundle up in cold-weather gear is a minor tradeoff for being able to avoid the summer sprawl of moored boats and hectic marine traffic in narrow channels.

At the cove’s southern end, we paddled past empty docks and racks of stored watercraft at Spicer Park, where the town of Groton offers summer kayaking, canoeing, paddleboarding and rowing. Adjacent Noank Village Boatyard also settled into hibernation.

After paddling beneath a second railroad bridge at the cove’s southern end, we re-entered the river near its mouth. We briefly contemplated steering toward Mason Point and Enders Island but instead opted to return because the wind was still kicking up and the tide continued to ebb.

“Gonna be a little less fun fighting our way back,” I said. No leisurely stops at the Seaport or downtown on this leg, though we did pause briefly to wave to a group of startled pedestrians outside the Mystic Museum of Art.

“Hey, look! People are kayaking!” one man exclaimed.

As we neared the River Road launch where our cars were parked, Robin checked the distance we’d covered using her GPS.

“Eight-point-three miles,” she announced.

“Come on, let’s round it off to 10,” I said.

And so we continued north, where we encountered not only the giant gaggle of geese but also a surprise inside a narrow cove just south of Old Mystic.

Crunch!

A nearly invisible layer of ice extended out to about 100 yards from the shore.

Tom tried breaking through, but it was thick enough to block any progress. This was a good place to turn around.

Soon we were back at the parking lot, and Robin rechecked her GPS.

“Ten-point-four!”

I was going to suggest we keep going and round it out to 11 miles, but my toes, jammed tightly against the cockpit’s foot braces, were getting chilly. The car heater would feel good on the drive back home.

Next time I’ll wear neoprene socks.