The crunch of shattering ice reverberated through frigid air Sunday morning as my son Tom and I bashed our paddles and kayaks repeatedly against a frozen Connecticut River in Old Saybrook.

Our mission: Hack a path from shore through the ice sheet. Once in open water, we still would have to dodge manatee-sized floes that swept downriver, but at least those semi-submerged chunks moved as slowly as wallowing sea cows.

“Watch out for icebergs!” I heard a fellow paddler shout from shore.

“Just like the Titanic!” I called back, though I didn’t think anybody could make out my words over the cacophony.

Because Tom and I were paddling durable, plastic boats, we were designated as temporary icebreakers for Curt Andersen, Declan Nowak, Bob Ten Eyck and Phil Warner, who were waiting to join us aboard more fragile Kevlar and fiberglass vessels. Once all of us punched through the 50-yard-wide band of ice, we began our journey upriver, bucking a stiff northwest wind and the end of an ebb tide.

Not 10 minutes later, Phil exclaimed, “Eagle! Two-o’clock!”

Actually, not one, but two bald eagles, circling above trees across the river in Old Lyme.

“OK, we can go home now,” I joked.

Every winter, dozens of these majestic birds migrate from northern New England to the lower Connecticut River to catch fish and hunt waterfowl; for decades, friends and I have ventured out in kayaks this time of year to view them.

As one might imagine, such an outing involves considerable safety precautions, preparations, specialized gear and experience — unlike summer, when all a paddler has to do is throw on shorts, T-shirt and sandals, grab a paddle and PFD, and hit the water.

One of the trickier aspects of winter paddling is finding an ice-free public launch site. We scouted a handful of locations in Old Lyme and Essex — all jammed up, which would have necessitated perilous Navy-Seal-style entry maneuvers.

I suspect that even Sir Ernest Shackleton, the heroic captain whose crew wound up icebound while trying to cross Antarctica during the Endurance expedition in the early 20th century, would have balked there.

Finally, we drove in a caravan to the Baldwin Bridge ramp. This site, several miles south of prime eagle-viewing locations and marginally blocked by ice, may have been less than ideal, but, as Declan commented, “Hey, we’ve come this far …”

So we unloaded boats from roof racks, donned cold-weather gear, climbed into cockpits, and took off.

Laboring for three miles against a headwind and tidal current, we edged past the barren banks of Calves, Goose and Nott islands before reaching the village of Essex.

Spectators near Essex Town Dock and the Connecticut River Museum waved and took pictures of our flotilla while we paused briefly for drinks and snacks, remaining afloat. With so much ice, there was no opportunity to step ashore.

Had we the ability and inclination, we might have sauntered up Main Street for a round or two at The Griswold Inn or Dauntless Club, favorite watering holes of the yachting crowd — but I don’t think we were properly attired.

“Let’s head for Hamburg Cove,” I suggested, pointing north and across the river to Lyme.

Off we went, avoiding a narrow gap leading to North Cove, totally encased in ice. We spotted a few other eagles that soared imperially in a cloudless, cerulean sky, while assorted gulls, ducks, Canada geese and a solitary loon either stood on ice or bobbed in water.

Once in danger of extinction, the bald eagle has rebounded admirably, thanks in large part to a 1972 ban on DDT that had weakened the eggshells of many avian predators. No longer on the endangered species list, our national symbol can now be seen year-round throughout Connecticut and elsewhere in the rest of the country. Watching one pass overhead is always a thrill.

Approaching Hamburg Cove, we passed the remnants of a landing for Ely’s Ferry, which in colonial times carried horse-drawn carriages between Essex and Lyme.

In mild winter, we had been able to launch kayaks from a small beach at the end of Ely’s Ferry Road in Lyme, but the past month’s relentlessly gelid conditions left the shore inaccessibly coated with snow and ice.

Arriving shortly afterward at Brockway Island near the entrance to Hamburg Cove, we gazed upriver at a stunning sight: The entire waterway, from shore to shore, was frozen. It looked like Alaska’s Mendenhall Glacier; you’d need a dogsled, not a kayak, to keep going.

Tom unstrapped an ice axe he had lashed to the deck and briefly scrambled onto the edge of the thick sheet. The rest of us wisely remained in our boats. At least he was wearing a drysuit.

It occurred to me that not only hadn’t we seen a single other vessel, it was possible nobody else was boating anywhere on the Connecticut River — assuming it was mostly frozen all the way to Canada, some 400 miles north.

It was a good place to turn around and paddle 5 miles back to the bridge — eagles in the sky, sun in our faces, wind at our back.