While rocketing along in a tandem kayak down the flood-swollen Connecticut River last week, my son Tom and I shot past Great Island in Old Lyme, surrounded by a flurry of osprey, bald eagles and great blue herons.

“Incredible!” Tom exclaimed.

Just as breathtaking was the speed we attained, driven by spring torrents, melting snow from northern New England and a furious, whipping tailwind.

We initially planned to take three days paddling 70 miles from Hartford to Mystic, but here we were, not even noon on the second day, and we already had covered nearly 50 miles.

“No sense stopping here — way too early,” I called from the stern.

Tom, also a subscriber to the make-hay-while-the-sun-shines school of navigation, nodded. “Let’s push on.”

So we steered east and burst into the sun-dappled waters of Long Island Sound, merrily rolling along with an ebbing tide and westerly breeze that kept our streak of good fortune alive.

“I think we can get as far as Rocky Neck,” I said, referring to the state park in East Lyme some seven miles away. Just off Hawk’s Nest Beach, a harbor seal poked its head above the surface before ducking back under.

The weather gods continued to smile on us with a fair wind and following sea, and in surprising short order, we surged past Hatchetts Point in Old Lyme, where Rocky Neck’s stone pavilion came into view. Still too early to call it a day.

“How about Harkness next — only a couple more miles,” I suggested.

“OK by me,” Tom replied.

Before long, we cruised past Harkness Memorial State Park in Waterford, where kids and teachers off on spring break lolled on the beach and strolled on the expansive lawn in front of 42-room Eolia mansion.

I checked my watch. Barely 1:30. Why stop now?

Instead, on to Ocean Beach Park in New London. There we pulled our 22-foot vessel onto the sand and dragged it out of waves washing ashore from the Orient Point ferry.

Only 2 p.m. Now what?

After perching on rocks overlooking Alewife Cove and fortifying ourselves with peanut butter sandwiches, Tom and I weighed our options.

Our initial plan called for camping the first night, spending the second night at a friend’s condo in Old Saybrook, and finishing our paddle the next day. But Old Saybrook was 15 miles in our rearview mirror, while Mystic beckoned just 10 miles ahead.

Tom and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and climbed back into the boat. Like gamblers on a winning streak, we were on a roll.

The voyage hadn’t begun so fortuitously.

On April 16, Tom, my wife, Lisa, and I drove to a launch site at Great River Park in East Hartford, directly across from downtown Hartford, only to find a sign at the gated entrance: “Park Closed Due to Flooding.”

“Oh, for the love of …” I muttered.

We pulled off the road near a gate that was too narrow for a car but wide enough to carry a kayak. I interpreted the sign to mean closed only to motor vehicles.

In a gusty wind, Tom and I unstrapped the boat from the roof rack while Lisa helped to lug gear to a parking lot inundated by several feet of overflowing river.

It took more than an hour to stuff waterproof bags containing a tent, sleeping bags, food, water, extra clothes and other gear into hatches. As we shoved off into the swirling current, Lisa tooted the horn and drove away.

“No turning back now,” I said.

Gripped by the rushing torrent, we flew past the Colt building and beneath the Charter Oak Bridge, where traffic on the Wilbur Cross Parkway rumbled.

“We’re really cruising,” Tom remarked. At that moment we sensed that this was a blessed voyage in which just about everything went right.

We reached the five-mile mark in exactly 40 minutes, averaging 7.5 mph. This would be better than race pace on flat water.

A little more than an hour later, we approached the 90-acre Gildersleeve Island between Portland and Cromwell, which is part of the Silvio O. Conte National Wildlife Refuge. A large shadow passed over us.

“Eagle!” we exclaimed.

This was the first of several dozen bald eagles we would observe as far south as Old Saybrook — some nesting in trees, others circling the heavens. In addition to osprey and herons, we also saw brants, loons, Canada geese, trumpeter swans, cormorants … I recalled a 400-mile canoe voyage down the Connecticut decades earlier, when raw sewage and industrial waste pretty much limited our bird viewing to sea gulls and crows.

Back then, we also didn’t have nearly this much current. At mile 18 this time, we surged beneath the twin arches of the Arragoni Bridge connecting Middletown to Portland, taking care to avoid maelstrom-like eddies that swirled around the stanchions.

We then pulled onto floating docks at Wesleyan University’s Macomber Boathouse for our first short break — sandwiches, energy bars, peanuts and raisins — before shoving off again.

Those accustomed to viewing the Connecticut River solely through a car windshield or from a waterfront park can’t truly appreciate its magnificence. Mile after mile, we swept past lush meadows, dense forests, sheer ledges, serene coves, twisting oxbows and tumbling tributaries.

It’s no wonder that The Nature Conservancy proclaims the lower Connecticut River one of “The World’s Last Great Places.” The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization also considers this section an “Estuary of Global Importance.”

We continued paddling past Dart Island, Mile 23; Hurd State Park, Mile 25; Haddam Island, Mile 28; and Goodspeed Opera House, Mile 31, where 20-plus-mph gusts roiled up bumpy “boogie water” that washed over the deck. Yikes.

Finally, two miles beyond Gillette Castle at Mile 34, we pulled ashore at Selden Neck State Park in Lyme.

“Thirty-six miles. That’s enough for one day,” I said.

The 610-acre property had been known as Selden Neck before a spring flood washed away a spit of land in 1854, Today Selden Island is bounded by Selden Creek to the east and the Connecticut River to the west. Tom and I had camped there years ago on a shorter kayak trip; we would pitch our tents again last week at one of the island’s four primitive campsites.

Technically, the campground wouldn’t open for another couple weeks, and I later mailed our $5 fee with a mea culpa to the state Department of Energy and Environmental Protection. Sometimes it’s easier to apologize than to ask for permission.

We sipped hot soup as a full moon rose after sunset, transfixed by an enormous log that had snagged on a partially submerged tree stump. A swift current would pull one end of the log underwater, and after a few seconds, the massive trunk would rear back up like the head of a sea monster.

The log was still bobbing up and down when we awoke at dawn on Wednesday, boiled water for tea and oatmeal, folded up our tent, stowed gear back in the hatches and shoved off under sunny skies.

The wind had subsided but still gave us a push from the north, also aided by the flooding current that managed to overpower an incoming tide.

We continued to tick away the miles as we passed Eustacia Island in Deep River at Mile 37; Chester Rock, Mile 38; Brockway Island and Hamburg Cove, Mile 40; Nott Island, Mile 41; Thatchbed Island, Mile 42; Calves Island, Mile 44; and finally, the imposing Baldwin Bridge that carries I-95 traffic between Old Lyme and Old Saybrook, Mile 45.

Three miles later, Tom and I dipped our paddles into Long Island Sound.

After our short break at Ocean Beach, Mile 60, we shot straight across the Thames River, making sure we weren’t on a collision course with any submarines, tankers or ferry boats, and then paddled past familiar landmarks: Ledge Light, Avery Point, Bluff Point, Groton Long Point, Esker Point in Noank and finally Morgan Point at the mouth of the Mystic River.

“Home stretch!” I shouted.

Not only were we pushed along by the tide but also by a south wind that miraculously had shifted.

“Unbelievable! Couldn’t ask for better conditions!” I exclaimed.

Just before Sixpenny Island, we used a cellphone to call Lisa, who arrived in Mystic just in time to take a few photos as we passed beneath the downtown bridge. Then she drove up River Road on Groton’s west bank while we paddled the last mile to the boat landing.

“Good trip?” she asked.

“Excellent!” I replied.

Actually, it was better than excellent — this voyage made up for all the past outings marred by thunderstorms, rough seas, and soggy campsites beset with black flies and mosquitoes.

Now, if we could only capture lightning in a bottle and count on kismet to come through in future excursions.