In Tampa’s busy port, a chaplain brings sailors offerings from land

PORT TAMPA BAY — Off the edge of the interstate, on a spit of land across from Davis Islands, the state’s busiest port blankets 5,000 acres at the top of Tampa Bay.

Every year, a million people board cruise ships at these docks.

Few get to see the other side of Port Tampa Bay, hidden behind security gates and lined with long concrete piers, where the air smells of oil and seaweed and seagulls scream above the rumble of trains.

Here, more than 3,000 cargo ships pull into berths, bringing gasoline, grain, granite, fertilizer, solar panels, orange juice, bananas, pineapples — and sailors from around the world.

Some have been at sea for months and get a single day at dock. Others don’t have visas and can’t leave their ships. They see Florida’s shore, no more.

For many, Fritz Goltermann is their only link to land.

As a chaplain for Tampa Port Ministries, he knows when the Queen B will anchor, how long Courageous plans to be at port. When vessels arrive, he calls their captains: “How can I help?”

He prays with sailors, if they want. But his maritime ministry is more practical than spiritual. Every month, he serves seamen from about 20 ships, bringing them Wi-Fi hotspots so they can communicate with faraway families, driving them to Best Buy and Publix. When they can’t go ashore, he brings their wishes on board.

On a drizzly spring Monday, Goltermann steered his van along giant bulkheads, threaded a maze of storage containers and parked beside Berth 26.

A Turkish ship had pulled in, and the captain had invited him for coffee.

At the ladder of the Manta Nigar, Goltermann grabbed the ropes that serve as handrails and prayed for courage to climb the rain-slick steps. After a couple of years on the job, he still marvels at the hulking ships — this one almost as long as two football fields and six stories tall.

He found the captain looking out at an enormous crane that was supposed to be piping cement powder from the ship’s hold into a storage tank on land. But the weather was too damp. They’d have to stay.

“We don’t know how long we are here,” he told Goltermann. “Or where we go next.”

Captain Mutoffer Kapicioglu and his crew of 21 had been at sea for a month. They all wanted to see at least a sliver of the United States, shop for things they can’t buy in Turkey. But none had permits.

“That breaks my heart,” said Goltermann, shaking his head. “I tell you what: Just take photos on your phone. Text me what you need — the crew, too.”

“You are so kind,” the captain said. “This is so good. My wife, she …” He stopped, looking embarrassed.

“Just let me know,” Goltermann said. “I’ll get you anything.”

Some of the crews, he knows by name — those who come every few months from India, Russia, Brazil. Others, he gets to know at anchor. He tries to imagine working and sleeping on a ship for months, walking the same halls, seeing the same faces, unable to talk to family, then hitting land and being banned from going ashore.

“It’s a lonely world out there,” he said. “Anything I can do to make these guys smile.”

Goltermann is 60, with salt-and-pepper hair, earnest blue eyes and the can-do personality of a camp counselor. He worked in his dad’s printing business, as a cab driver and at Publix while raising four daughters with his wife.

Though he spent most of his life near Tampa, he knew nothing of the historic port, where ships in the mid-1800s carried cattle to Cuba, then exported phosphate and cigars.

When a friend told him the Seafarers Center was looking for a chaplain, it felt like a sign — a way to make a difference.

“I knew what I was getting into: running errands and sorting packages,” Goltermann said. He’s not an ordained minister, just got a week of training on maritime life. He doesn’t care what religion the sailors are or if they believe in God. “I’m not here to evangelize,” he said.

He’s supposed to work 40 hours, but the job consumes him. His wife says he checks the ship log too often. “But I don’t want to be caught off-guard or leave anyone hanging.” He doesn’t understand the fine print of the laws that keep sailors on board, doesn’t think about tariffs or things he can’t control. He just worries about the seamen. “They’re the forgotten ones.”

For those who can disembark, it takes more than an hour to walk out of the port. A taxi to the closest stores costs $80 one way. So Goltermann piles them into his van and takes them where they want to go.

He has gotten good, not great, at Google Translate. And Walmart, he’s learned, is open all night.

While the ship’s cook poured Turkish coffee into tiny china cups, Goltermann asked the captain why he went to sea.

He had joined a ship’s crew to see the world, he said, not knowing the life it demanded: nine months of isolation, away from his wife, young daughter and son.

In 25 years, the captain had been to Finland, Guatemala, China, South Africa. He had slid past Somalia with a warship escort to protect from pirates.

Most ports around the world have Seafarers’ Centers, often sponsored by churches. “But not all are like you, with these services, all for free. This is a good surprise for us,” said the captain, who had never been to Tampa before. “We are not alone here.”

At Goltermann’s urging, the captain texted his crew, asking what they wanted. Cordless vacuums for their cabins, two sailors said. Others sent photos of ice cream machines for their kids. For an officer, an Apple tablet. They would pay Goltermann back in cash.

“And for your wife?” Goltermann remembered.

The captain nodded, showed him screenshots of face cream and mascara. “If it is possible, she wants this from Sephora.”

Goltermann promised the captain he’d find one.

Inside the Seafarers Center, near the middle of the port, dusty guitars are propped inside what used to be a chapel. An empty prayer box sits beside a stack of Bibles.

When the center opened in 2001, sailors came to church services and prayed with the chaplains. Now that restrictions keep so many on board, no one comes to worship — or even to play pool in the recreation room.

“They don’t need our TVs or computers,” Goltermann said. “And we bring the Wi-Fi to them.”

The internet connection is his most meaningful ministry, he said. He has watched a sailor celebrate his young son’s birthday with faraway family. Another time, he helped a Filipino sailor see his newborn daughter for the first time.

Most of the nonprofit’s $175,000 budget comes from a fundraiser gala and fishing and golf tournaments. The Tampa Propeller Club, which supports maritime businesses, also helps. Besides the salaries of three chaplains, expenses include office space and the van.

The center shares a building with the USF College of Nursing Seafarers Clinic, which opened last year. It is the world’s first nurse-run clinic at a port. Goltermann often sends sailors there.

Beside the cruise ship ports, he and his fellow chaplains also run “the Glass Room,” where they collect incoming packages that multiply by the day. Thousands of cruise ship crews pour into the port every week and only have a few hours before they head back to sea.

When they want new shirts or shoes, books or backpacks, they send Amazon orders to the Seafarers Center, where Goltermann helps sort them onto head-high shelves.

Over the holidays, so many packages came that his boss began charging $3 to process each order. Last year, they logged 400,000 deliveries.

A poster inside the windowed room warns, “Don’t drink and Prime.”

Many of the same faces return each week, said Goltermann’s supervisor, Steve Finnesy. After a dozen years on the job, he knows who’s constantly buying. And he worries that crew members might not be able to afford all they order.

He doesn’t scold. But sometimes he asks, “Is everything OK?”

Once, a woman started crying at his question. Her boss wanted her to speak better English, she said. She was scared she might lose her job.

The next time Finnesy saw her, he had lined up a tutor from a local church.

“This is the first job I’ve had where I want to go to work, even on my off days,” Finnesy said. “Sometimes we’re the only relative they have.”

Goltermann was in the supply closet later that day, filling gift bags with donated toiletries, when his phone buzzed.

The Turkish captain and his crew wanted a few more things, please.

For the chief officer, a case of Red Bull. Three crewmen wanted blow-up pools to surprise their kids.

“And for my wife …” The captain texted a scarlet lipstick.

The rain had stopped. The docks were drying. The captain hoped to unload his cement the next day.

Goltermann would have to shop fast. A pile of scrap metal on a nearby bulkhead needed a ride to Turkey.

Port Tampa Bay: By the numbers

35 million tons of cargo shipped annually11 million tons of cargo go to and from foreign ports18 million tons of oil, gas, jet fuel3,100 vessels come and go1.1 million cruise passengers board$17 billion economic impact on our region85,000 jobs

Source: Port Tampa Bay