Driving over water

A few minutes later we reached the Staten Island Ferry and remembered something obvious: we were on an island. The ferry didn’t take cars. Or chariots. Or motorcycles. “Great,” Clarisse mumbled. “What do we do now? Ride this thing across the Verrazano Bridge?” We both knew there wasn’t time. There were bridges to Brooklyn and New Jersey, but either way it would take hours to drive the chariot back to Manhattan, even if we could fool people into thinking it was a regular car. Then I got an idea. “We’ll take the direct route.” Clarisse frowned. “What do you mean?” I closed my eyes and began to concentrate. “Drive straight ahead. Go!” Clarisse was so desperate she didn’t hesitate. She yelled, “Hiya!” and lashed the horses. They charged straight toward the water. I imagined the sea turning solid, the waves becoming a firm surface all the way to Manhattan. The war chariot hit the surf, the horses’ fiery breath smoking all around us, and we rode the tops of the waves straight across New York Harbor. We arrived at Pier 86 just as the sunset was fading to purple.

DF pg.25-27