You know that feeling when you’re about to attempt something adventurous that at first seemed it would be fun, but then doubts about your safety and sanity crept in? Oh no! Too late!

This pretty much summed up my state of mind while whitewater kayaking down the Salmon River near the Colchester-Marlborough-East Hampton line, when I pondered paddling over a broken dam that featured a gut-clenching 4-foot drop, nasty standing wave, jutting boulders and air/water temperatures barely above freezing.

This treacherously tantalizing section could present either an exhilarating exclamation point on a sporting, 3-mile voyage down one of Connecticut’s most elegantly pristine waterways, or a horrible ordeal involving smashed boats/bones, Maytagging through roaring churn and bouncing underwater off boulders.

Before we get to that point, though, let’s back up.

Joining me on the outing earlier this week were my son, Tom, and a friend, Bob Graham. We took turns paddling in pairs while the odd man out served as shuttle driver.

Tom, in town for a few weeks before venturing off to a kayak-guiding job on Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula, was eager to get in some East Coast paddling before tackling the Strait of Juan de Fuca and other western waters; Bob and I, truth be told, had a score to settle with the Salmon River.

Years ago, both of us unceremoniously dumped our ’yaks while attempting to navigate the broken dam. Though I’ve managed to stay upright on numerous other occasions, that one flawed passage continued to rankle.

Same went for Bob.

“I knew that if I didn’t do it today, I’d feel worthless,” he said.

“Like falling off a horse. You gotta get back on,” I agreed.

A brisk breeze whistled through the pines and hemlocks when Bob and Tom launched their plastic boats just north of a bridge on River Road. By the time I loped back to the car they had already disappeared around a bend in the river, so I drove south along a muddy road and eventually caught up with them just above the dam.

“I’ll go first,” Tom said. While he tightened his spray skirt, I scrambled over rocks to a point below the cataract and waited.

Moments later Tom plunged over the lip, executed a brace and expertly maneuvered through the standing wave, emerging a few feet from shore with a broad smile. Piece of cake.

Tom waved his arm to Bob, waiting upstream.

He swung into the current, peering anxiously ahead, then got sucked into the vortex. Bob’s boat teetered slightly and submerged to his armpits before it popped up and surged through the hydraulic. Success!

“Nothing to it!” he exulted.

Now it was my turn.

Osprey dove for fish while we paddled along the upper stretch of river. Snow lining the banks and icicles dangling from ledges glittered in filtered sunlight.

Though early spring normally is prime time for whitewater paddling, an unseasonably dry and mild winter has kept water levels relatively low. On a scale of I to VI, the Salmon barely registers Class II, though the broken dam section might count as close to a Class III.

None of those numbers were on my mind, though, when we approached the dam.

“You still OK with going over?” Tom asked.

“Absolutely!”

“OK, wait for my signal.” He dug his paddle into the water and sped toward the gap.

A few moments later, I watched his boat tilt toward the drop-off and disappear. From my upstream perspective it was as if he had plunged over Niagara Falls.

I never did see Tom’s signal, but waited about 30 seconds before edging into the current.

The roar ahead was deafening.

Still time to change my mind, I told myself, glancing at the shoreline zipping past only a few yards away. Still time, still time, still time … OK! No more time!

The powerful flow seized control of the boat. Stay right, stay right, stay right. I had drilled that mantra into my head after scouting the dam earlier. Wait! Not too far right – I’ll smash into that rock! Quick! Hard left! Straighten out!

Cascading water surrounded me. Protruding rocks on either side guarded the passage.

Whoosh! Into the breach … A few yards ahead, the dreaded standing wave loomed menacingly.

Then, an eerie calm swept over me. I smiled. I could do this.

Just punch through it! Trust your instincts!

Pow! I was swallowed in froth up to my shoulders.

Splash! Then squirted out like a watermelon seed.

A quick thumbs up to Tom and Bob.

We had broken the curse of the Salmon River dam.