A Jet Ski’s piercing whine shattered the air one sunny afternoon last week as our group of paddlers approached Selden Island on the Connecticut River in Lyme. 

“Now THAT’S what I need,” Bob Tenyck joked, watching the vessel spin in circles and shoot airborne over its own wake.

Bob, gliding along in a sleek, wooden kayak he built by hand, would be as likely to tear along in a motorized personal watercraft as Nancy Pelosi would be to join Donald Trump for a round of golf at Mar-a-Lago.

Although the 12 of us did enjoy tranquil, socially distanced moments on the river while navigating south from Eagle Landing State Park in Haddam, every so often a powerboat would roar by, pushing the 45 mph speed limit. Most kayaks can’t top 6. The noise gap was even greater — motorboats can legally crank out up to 90 decibels; at best, kayaks generate about 10.

Not every powerboat caused us to clutch our paddles in a death grip and prepare to sprint out of its speeding path. The Chester-Hadlyme ferry, a state historical landmark, plied gently back and forth between the two villages, It probably doesn’t go much faster today than when seasonal service began in 1769; back then passengers were ferried across the river on a raft propelled by long poles.

Connecticut’s Native American name translates to “long, tidal river,” and the broad waterway that bisects the state is sufficiently capacious to accommodate all types of human-powered and motorized vessels. Powerboat skippers have as much right to the water as any kayaker, canoeist or paddleboarder, and though most politely cut the throttle when they saw us, we were happy to flee the main channel.

Salvation came at the southern tip of Selden Island, when our crew steered into a secluded, narrow passage. Selden Creek, which flows between the 610-acre island and a mainland wildlife sanctuary owned by The Nature Conservancy, meanders among reeds, woodlands, ledges and wildflower-bedecked marshes populated with great blue herons, egrets and kingfishers.

Selden Island, the state’s only maritime park, wasn’t always that serene — in fact, it originally wasn’t even an island. The land was known as Selden Neck before a 1854 flood cut it off from the eastern shore.

In the late 1800s, hundreds of laborers used steam drills and derricks to remove countless tons of red granite schist from the island; the rock was cut into paving stones for shipment to New York and other large cities.

Today the abandoned quarries, accessible by trails, are the only vestiges of this once-booming operation.

We didn’t stop to explore, though, beaching only briefly for a snack before rejoining the river at the north end of Selden Island.

Once again, we were soon awash in Jet Skis, cabin cruisers and fishing boats, until we reached the south entrance of Chapman Pond, just north of Gillette Castle.

“We’re about to start the therapeutic part of our paddle,” quipped Curt Andersen, who helped Bob organize the excursion.

Chapman Pond, accessible only at high tide, is an expansive tidal marsh that borders a 700-acre Nature Conservancy preserve.

Maybe we should have tarried longer at Selden Island, because the tide was still an hour from full flood when all 12 kayaks slipped single file through the serpentine, eelgrass-choked, channel. Still, it was a glorious respite, so close to the main river yet seemingly so far removed.

It was a day of contrasts: At one point, a pair of bald eagles soared overhead, followed shortly by a small airplane taking off from Goodspeed Airport.

The East Haddam Land Trust, which owns the property, notes that Chapman Pond had been a hay meadow before a 1936 flood created the marsh that exists today.

After squeezing through a gap at the pond’s north end, we re-entered the Connecticut River, slipped between Rich and Lord islands and prepared to return to Eagle Landing, where our cars were parked.

One final challenge in a 12-mile outing: timing our crossing to avoid powerboats speeding down from Middletown as well as those heading up from Long Island Sound. It was a little like dashing across I-95’s northbound and southbound lanes on foot.

I often encounter similar marine traffic conditions on Fishers Island and Long Island sounds, and am familiar with the so-called “rules of the road” dictating which vessel has the right of way when two boats are heading toward one another.

As far I’m concerned, as well as the friends with whom I paddle, when you’re in a kayak, it doesn’t matter if you have the right away. It’s always wiser to give way, especially when the other vessel is bigger and faster.

Over the years, I’ve applied this rule when navigating in lakes, rivers, oceans and other bodies of water, among cruise ships, freighters, tankers and even submarines, but one of my most memorable encounters took place while on an 11-day kayak trip on the Erie Canal from Buffalo to Albany.

Somewhere near Rochester, I approached a woman paddler, maybe a quarter-mile ahead, heading in my direction. No problem, I steered slightly starboard.

She veered port.

So I adjusted my course — but so did she.

Back and forth we went for the next couple hundred yards, each time unintentionally staying on a collision course. It was as if we were equipped with homing devices.

Finally: Wham!

Well, maybe it was more of a bump, but still, she was one of the only kayakers I saw over 341 miles, and somehow we smacked into each other.

At least she wasn’t driving a Jet-Ski.