I’ve had close calls in 45 years of journalism, but a brief holiday on Belle Isle, off the coast of Brittany, nearly killed me.

The holiday mood and idyllic surroundings led me to forget how fierce the sea is, that no matter one’s age or experience as a swimmer, the risk of drowning is always present.

July 4th was a perfect summer morning. I wanted to forget Donald Trump and remember good things about the United States on its 250th birthday. My host, Laure Debreuil – like me a semi-retired, freelance journalist – and I planned a hot dogs and cheeseburger dinner with her son and favourite neighbours.

I must have tempted fate by declaring how happy I was as we walked to the beach near Laure’s house for a swim. The narrow bay is flanked by granite cliffs. A mutual acquaintance had boasted of swimming daily to the craggy outcrops at the entrance to the bay. “That’s not very far,” I said, deciding I would match him. “It’s farther than it looks,” Laure said.

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I plunged into the cold, blue waters of the north Atlantic. When I reached the outcrops and turned back towards shore, I discovered I had misjudged the distance. I........

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