It was 1987. Prozac, disposable contact lenses and The Simpsons catapulted into American culture. The average gallon of gas was 89 cents, airwaves were dominated by hair bands and fashionably glamorous meant wearing shoulder pads. No cellphones, no internet, no GPS.

I had moved to Miami the year before and bought a car that seemed fitting: a heavily used, white, 1972 convertible Cadillac. The top was broken, the fins were speckled with rust holes, and the scruffy leather interior could accommodate a dozen NBA athletes. I called it The Shark.

In September of 1987 Miami buzzed with Popemania. Pope John Paul was to kick off his 10-day U.S. tour with an appearance at the Orange Bowl, and the city was in a frenzy. The day before the Pope’s arrival, I spent the afternoon in a meeting downtown and left The Shark straddling two parking spaces. It was dusk when I stepped outside. The air held the metallic smell of pending rain.

As I neared my car, I heard whimpering. I looked over the massive front end and saw three nuns sitting on the curb, crying. They looked like figurines. Behind each was a tattered valise from the Mary Poppins line of luggage.

I walked slowly toward them. “Are you okay?” I asked. They looked up wide-eyed and jumped to their feet. All three were tiny women dressed in full nun gear, which meant cascades of joylessly colored fabric. Their robes fell just below their knees. They wore thick, black stockings and sensible shoes. They all made the Sign of the Cross, furiously fingered their rosaries and wailed in Spanish.

“Lo siento,” I said. I’m sorry. I tapped into the high school Spanish section of my brain and spoke haltingly: “No entiendo mucho espanol. Por favor habla mas despacio.” I don’t understand much Spanish; please speak slowly.

More crossing, more praying, more wailing. The one in the glasses pointed to a flat tire on the car in the parking space in front of The Shark. An Alamo sticker stamped the bumper. She pointed to the trunk and to a lone key on a ring. “No,” she said, shrugging.

I tried to jam the key into the trunk lock to free the spare. “No,” I said, shrugging.

More crossing, more praying. The one in the glasses reached into what looked like a toy pocketbook and pulled out a scrap of paper with an address on it. It was in a neighborhood about 30 minutes away. “Mi hermano,” she said.

“Telephone?” I asked her weakly.

“No,” she answered. No hay telefono.

I pointed toward my car and to their suitcases. I took the slip of paper with the address. “Gracias, gracias, gracias,” they said. As I stowed their suitcases in the trunk, all three climbed into the back seat. I fired up the engine in a robust basso profondo exhalation and slipped into the crawl of traffic.

I merged onto a highway. In the rear-view mirror I saw the three of them huddled with their hands clamped onto their ears to steady their black habits, which snapped in the wind. The back seat swallowed them.

We motored on for a bit, and then it began to rain. One of the aerodynamic principles I discovered driving The Shark is that rain didn’t fall into the car if I maintained a steady speed of at least 45 mph. Instead, the rain blew over in a watery arc that spit a light spray onto the top of my head. I gunned through a yellow light and kept a heavy foot on the accelerator. I checked the rear-view mirror. The one with the glasses wiped raindrops off her lenses. Water slicked the car seats. They looked terrified, but I just kept hurling down the highway, trying to outrun the rain. I think I heard the nuns begin to pray.

About 15 minutes later, the warm rain stopped just as quickly as it had begun. I pulled off the highway into the neighborhood that was our destination. The air smelled like jasmine and wet grass. Mist rose in humid, filmy clouds pierced by my headlights, and the tree-lined streets were shiny, making the night look as if it were part of a dream.

I found the address and pulled The Shark to the curb. A man ran from the building in his undershirt, yelling and waving his arms. The nuns ran toward him. The foursome hugged and talked all at the same time. They pointed at The Shark; their hands sliced the air with unreadable gestures. I opened the trunk and lined their tiny suitcases on the sidewalk. They stopped talking and walked over to me.

“Sank you lady,” the one with the glasses said. The two other nuns parroted her. “Sank you, lady. Sank you, lady.” The one with the glasses said something else I couldn’t understand. The other two giggled. She reached up and touched my damp hair, and we all laughed.

And then she stood on her tiptoes. With her small thumb she traced a cross on my forehead and looked deeply into my eyes. “Sank you, lady,” she said solemnly. I held her gaze and then turned away and got into The Shark. As I drove away, I saw them grow smaller in my rear-view mirror. Then they were gone, and I saw only the streetlights that looked in the mist as if they were crowned with halos.

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A version of this story originally appeared in the Miami Herald’s Tropic magazine. This version was recently published in Flag Live.