As the four of us rocketed in our kayaks on Long Island Sound past the mouth of the Thames River in New London last Sunday, propelled by a gusty breeze and flooding tide, one thought prevented me from fully enjoying the wild ride: At some point we would have to turn around and paddle back against building seas and intensifying wind.

Either that or we could continue all the way to New York City, ditch our boats and take the train back – not an appealing prospect.

No matter, we were doing what so many adventurers do on a spirited outing: living for the moment. In fact, it was a joyous reunion with Dan Bendor, who had rejoined our kayaking group after an extended absence.

Dan’s paddling – and nearly his life – was cut short on April 7, 2010, when a truck veered from its lane on Route 85 in Waterford and collided with a car driven by Dan’s wife, Karla, in which he was a passenger. The couple suffered numerous broken bones and other extensive injuries.

When I visited Karla and Dan in a rehabilitation center soon after the crash both were outfitted in casts, splints and braces, and had scars from lacerations and multiple surgeries. Neither could walk.

Many such trauma victims would have resigned themselves to lifelong handicaps, but not the Bendors. They threw themselves into rigorous, disciplined physical therapy regimens and today, with continued treatments, Karla and Dan are able to pursue many, but not all, of their favorite activities.

Dan still can’t run, and has to limit or modify some other exercises, but counts his blessings.

“I’m more happy to be alive, and find life even more precious than I did before,” Dan said. 

Joining Dan and me last Sunday were old buddies Carl Astor and Ian Frenkel. We’ve been paddling together for years, including numerous epic voyages and races.

Ian is a pianist, Carl is a rabbi and Dan is a psychiatrist, which pretty much covers all the joke punchlines, but Dan interjected a serious comment that turned out to be harrowingly prophetic when reflecting about the crash.

“For years, as a clinician, when I’ve talked to my patients about the fragility and preciousness of life I would say, ‘You never know when a truck is going to cross the midline,’” he said.

Anyway, Ian and I were in a 22-foot tandem, while Carl and Dan paddled an identical vessel alongside.

We initially planned to cross Long Island Sound from New London to Orient Point and back, throwing in a detour around Plum Island and through the notorious Plum Gut, a 28-mile voyage we’d taken a few years ago, but conditions were too rough.

“Four-foot seas now, and 12-15 mph winds, intensifying later (when we would be paddling back),” Dan, the voice of reason, cautioned. Instead, we decided to paddle from the Thames to the Connecticut River and back. At least we would be close to shore.

So there we were, shooting by such familiar landmarks as Ocean Beach in New London, Harkness State Park in Waterford, Rocky Neck State Park and Black Point in East Lyme and finally, Great Island in Old Lyme at the mouth of the Connecticut. It had taken us less than 2 1/2 hours to cover nearly 14 miles, which included several breaks for drinks.

After a short lunch respite we faced the moment of truth.

“Let’s go, guys,” Carl urged.

So we donned still-soggy life jackets and spray skirts, climbed into cockpits and shoved off into the fray.

The wind and waves had indeed intensified, buffeting our boats and soaking us with spray. I cursed myself for neglecting to pack a waterproof paddling jacket, thinking I would be warm enough in a polypropylene shirt because the forecast called for 60-degree temperatures.

I was reasonably comfortable as long as I kept paddling, but 14 miles into a powerful headwind, after already logging 14 miles, began to take its toll.

At one point I cried, “Bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleeping wind! Can’t you give us a bleeping break?” I may have added a few extra bleeps for good measure.

I briefly considered pulling ashore at Rocky Neck and jogging the last seven miles or so to retrieve my car, but Carl was resolute.

 “We’ll be back in two hours,” he promised.

So we tightened the grips on our paddles, set our jaws and stuck it out.

The sun had begun to set as we pulled onto a beach in New London not far from the lighthouse on Pequot Avenue, and I scrambled to throw on dry clothes.

I was very happy to be back on terra firma, but more delighted that our old paddling pal made the journey.

“Great to kayak with you again,” I told Dan.

“Great to be out here,” he replied.

In a world filled with potentially wayward trucks, it’s the only way to live. Carpe diem.