Derek Wittner lives in Kennebunkport.

Often one hears that anyone living in Maine but not born in the state is suspect. I prefer to think that anyone not born in Maine, but who chooses to move here, should be congratulated for making a wise choice.

In view of a recent incident, the decision my wife and I made to move here 12 years ago only cements the wisdom of that choice.

On Tuesday, May 26, we put our two pieces of luggage in the cargo space of an SUV in Brooklyn, New York, and embarked on our journey home to Maine. We had spent a wonderful couple of days with our son, our daughter-in-law and 8-month-old grandson. Leaving New York is never an easy task; the looming traffic snarls unavoidable no matter the route. This day was no different, but it was bright and sunny, and we set off with hopes for an uneventful trip.

Traversing Connecticut, where we stopped for a late lunch, Massachusetts and New Hampshire, we were buoyed by the beautiful green countryside, even as our spirits were dampened by leaving our kids. We were enjoying the drive in this SUV, which our son made available to us for the trip home. It was clearly meticulously maintained, and drove like a dream.

Six hours into our journey, rather than head directly home, we decided to motor on to the Jetport to pick up our car, which we had left in the airport garage before our flight to New York. As we passed the second exit for Saco on Interstate 95, traveling in the right (slower) lane, a motorcyclist pulled up even with the driver side window and motioned us off the interstate, indicating something unintelligible to me.

He then slipped behind us and reappeared on the passenger side, this time motioning frantically to pull over while yelling “get out, get out.” At that very moment, I noted that an alert on the dashboard screen said “reduced engine efficiency” and the accelerator no longer responded. This was accompanied by the appearance of smoke from under the hood.

I was able to steer the car to a median between the interstate and a merging lane but by this time the smoke was intense, turning a nasty black color. We quickly jumped out, my wife running from the car while I ran to the rear, grabbed our bags from the hatch, and flung them away from the car before running to join my wife.

As we viewed flames now consuming the front of the car, a woman ran toward us, identifying herself as a doctor, asking if there was anyone else in the car or if we needed medical assistance. Several drivers stopped to see if we were OK. One, in a white pickup, had gotten out and headed toward my wife to see if she was injured. As I approached, he asked if I was OK, and then told me that he had alerted the police and firefighters.

Noticing that my wife was quite shaken by the ordeal, he gave her a reassuring hug and told us he would stay with us while this ordeal unfolded. We felt comforted by his presence and that of his yellow Lab, Abby, who licked our faces as if to say it would be alright.

For several minutes we watched flames envelop the SUV. As police arrived, we recounted the events to them, as they expressed their concern for us. The Saco Fire Department folks arrived minutes later and began the task of extinguishing the flames.

All we could do was offer profuse thanks to the unknown motorcyclist for saving our lives, to our guardian and his sweet dog, to the friendly troopers who commiserated with us and to the stalwart firefighters who put out the fire.

Visions of that remaining blackened steel shell still haunt us, as we reflect on the “what ifs,” such as children or pets or loved ones who might have been in the car. Replacing cards, phones, wallets and sundries was a small price to pay for our lives.

Through all of this, our new friend remained and assured the police that he would get us to the Jetport to get our car. He did just that. And the next morning he contacted us to see how we were doing.

As we drove home from the Jetport our conversation toggled between intense gratitude for those strangers who so generously helped us, delayed shock at what had just happened and concern that our children might somehow feel responsible, the last thing we would want.

Passing the site of the fire only heightened these emotions. Throughout this event, no one spoke of politics, religion, ethnicity or any other identities. We had seen acts of kindness and humanity from Mainers that transcended any of those. They were concerned about us and simply wanted to help.

As adopted Mainers, my wife and I hope that if we encounter others needing assistance during a difficult time, we will act with the same grace and warmth that we received in our hour of need.