North Harbor is a couple of hundred miles from Manhattan as the crow flies. As it happened, a crow took off from one of the chimneys and flew out ahead of me, and I actually considered following it before deciding that would be insane. So I took Andre’s advice from earlier and hugged the coast. Following all the bends along the shore—all the coves and nubbles and promontories—added distance to my trip. Clinging to the broomstick with hands and knees, I urged it to go faster, faster! I outstripped crows and seagulls. Mist stung my cheeks and soaked through my scarf. Kitty hated it. This was far, far more dangerous than riding a bike without training wheels. She tried to help by blowing the air backward from my face, but that just whipped my hair around, stinging my ears. My legs were aching and everything chafed. Then I saw a helicopter ahead of me, and I panicked. I gave the broom a storm of mixed messages: Up! Down! Forward—no, back!
