“Across the Causeway of Time: The Hidden History of the Pitt Street Bridge”

The Pitt Street Bridge is a popular Charleston destination for enjoying a pleasant stroll with a scenic view of the harbor and the Sullivan’s Island marshlands. It is also an ideal place to cast your fishing line or slide your kayak into the surrounding estuary waters. However, beginning January 5, a section of the bridge’s causeway will be closed for a week so crews can drill into its substructure to examine and assess its stability. During the inspection, 600 feet will remain open for you to enjoy. As you walk its wooden causeway, soaking in the view, it’s worth pausing to consider the long and surprising history that unfolded across these waters.

Today, Charleston’s barrier islands stretching north from the harbor are lined with beautiful, expansive vacation homes. Their sparkling shorelines welcome throngs of visitors and local beachgoers spreading blankets and chairs across the sand. With that familiar scene in mind, it may be difficult to imagine one of these pristine islands once dominated not by quiet neighborhoods but by a Ferris wheel turning above the dunes, a merry‑go‑round spinning in the sand, and a Coney Island–style roller coaster called The Steeple Chase thundering across the landscape. Yet the islands have undergone dramatic transformations long before becoming the serene retreats we know today.

To understand how unlikely such amusements once were, it helps to look back to the earliest days of settlement. In the colonial era, a simple plank bridge built on barrels connected what is now Mount Pleasant to Sullivan’s Island at Cove Inlet. When Edgar Allan Poe arrived on Sullivan’s Island in 1827 aboard the Waltham and served as a company clerk at Fort Moultrie, he described the island in vivid, if unflattering, terms. In The Gold Bug, he wrote, “The island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than sea sand, and is about three miles long…” His portrayal—bleak, windswept, and sparsely inhabited—reflects both the island’s raw state and Poe’s own dark literary sensibilities.

Yet not everyone saw Sullivan’s Island through such a somber lens. Around the same time, Charleston architect Robert Mills offered a far more inviting depiction. Writing in 1826, he described the island as “the summer retreat for pleasure and health” for Charlestonians, noting the steady flow of boats ferrying visitors across the harbor and the growing village of Moultrieville with its wooden houses and breezy shoreline. He praised the firm, wide beach at low tide, where “the delighted visitant may inhale the pure and bracing sea breeze, which wafts health and vigor to the system.”

The old floating footbridge stretching across from mainland Mount Pleasant was once the only access to Sullivan’s Island—and the stepping‑stone to the uninhabited six‑mile stretch of sand beyond Breach Inlet known as Long Island. On the 17th of February, under the command of Lt. George Dixon, the Hunley’s crew of eight crossed that same footbridge at Cove Inlet near Fort Moultrie. From there, they hiked 2½ miles north to Breach Inlet and waited for nightfall, following a route that would later become central to the island’s transformation.

As the islands slowly drew more attention, the Town of Moultrieville granted land to Robert Chisolm for the construction of a hotel. Around Station 22, the New Brighton Hotel rose in the mid‑1880s—later renamed the Atlantic Beach Hotel—and included three beach cottages alongside the main structure. This modest development marked the beginning of a new era of leisure along the coast.

That shift accelerated in 1897, when the stretch of sand beyond Breach Inlet—once visited only by the Atlantic surf—began to attract real interest. Dr. J. S. Lawrence established a public amusement and beach resort on the island. With no cottages or hotels yet built, visitors gathered at the Pavilion, where a 50‑cent meal awaited them. The amusements were ambitious: a Ferris wheel, a merry‑go‑round, and a roller‑coaster‑style ride called The Steeple Chase, featuring five mechanical horses racing along a U‑shaped track. The Ferris wheel itself had traveled a storied path—from the Chicago World’s Fair in 1892 to the Cotton Congress in Atlanta and then to Coney Island—before arriving in South Carolina. The resort’s popularity earned it the nickname “Playground of the South,” and with that, the Isle of Palms was born.

Infrastructure soon followed. In 1898, the old planked bridge was replaced by a trolley bridge known as the Cove Inlet Bridge, or the Pitt Street Bridge. Before electricity, the earliest trolleys were horse‑drawn and ran on wooden rails that often shifted in the sand beds, but even this imperfect system marked a significant improvement in access.

At the same time, Charleston embraced new technology. The electric streetcar arrived in the city, and in July of that year the Seashore Road opened. The local paper reported on July 26, “A great event for the city, the Seashore Road formally opened yesterday…” as ferries such as the Commodore Perry, the Sappho, and the Pocosin carried eager passengers across the harbor to Mount Pleasant.

Once ashore, travelers boarded trolley cars that carried them through Mount Pleasant, across the Pitt Street Bridge, and onward toward Breach Inlet before continuing to the Isle of Palms. Development followed quickly: Nicholas Sottile built the island’s first home in 1898 at 807 Ocean Boulevard. The Seashore Hotel opened in 1906 with fifty rooms, and the Hotel Marion by the Sea followed in 1912.

Not all progress was without loss. On January 9, 1925, tragedy struck the Atlantic Beach Hotel on Sullivan’s Island when it, along with one of its cottages, burned to the ground. Rumor held that a bootlegger searching for hidden whiskey lit a match in the bushes beside the hotel, sparking the blaze. No hotel would ever rise on the island again.

Transportation continued to evolve. In the 1920s, the Pitt Street Bridge was widened for vehicular traffic, and a drawbridge was added. By 1926, the trolley trestle over Breach Inlet had been converted into a bridge for automobiles, and trolley service to Sullivan’s Island ended the following year.

Until then, Mount Pleasant and the islands had relied entirely on ferries to connect with Charleston. That changed in 1929 with the construction of the Grace Memorial Bridge, a cantilever span across the Cooper River that finally linked the islands to the city by automobile. The Pitt Street Bridge closed to traffic when its drawbridge was relocated, and in 1945 the Ben Sawyer Bridge was completed. Its rotating center span allowed boats to pass along the Intracoastal Waterway, marking the final step in the islands’ evolution from isolated stretches of sand to accessible coastal communities.

The Joggling Board: A Lowcountry Legend Born of Necessity, Folklore, and Charleston Charm

If you’ve spent any time wandering the piazzas of Charleston, South Carolina, you’ve likely noticed a curious piece of furniture: a long, springy plank—painted a deep Charleston green—resting on two arched rockers. Locals call it a joggling board, and it’s as much a part of Lowcountry identity as sweetgrass baskets, live oaks, and the scent of pluff mud drifting in on the tide.

But the joggling board isn’t just a decorative porch oddity. Its story stretches back more than two centuries, crossing oceans, plantations, and generations of Southern folklore.

The most widely accepted origin story begins in 1803 at Acton Plantation in Sumter County, just outside the Charleston region. The plantation house burned down in 1911. Mary (or Mrs. Benjamin) Huger moved in to help her brother, Cleland Kinlock, manage the house after the death of his wife. According to historical accounts, Mary suffered from painful rheumatism that kept her from enjoying carriage rides—her favorite pastime. In a letter to her family in East Lothian, Scotland, she lamented her limited mobility. Her Scottish relatives responded with an unusual solution: a model and plans for a flexible exercise bench designed to allow gentle bouncing and movement.

East Lothian, Gilmerton House

A carpenter at Acton Plantation built the first American joggling board based on those plans. The result was a long, pliant board—typically 12 to 16 feet—mounted on two wooden stands. The gentle “joggling” motion was believed to soothe stiff joints and provide low-impact exercise.

What began as a medical aid soon became a cultural fixture. By the mid-19th century, joggling boards had migrated from inland plantations to the piazzas of Charleston homes. Their distinctive look—long, narrow, and painted Charleston green—made them instantly recognizable. The color itself is a local signature: a near-black shade of green believed to withstand the Lowcountry sun and blend elegantly with historic architecture. One place to see a joggling board in Charleston is at the Edmondston-Alston House.

Edmondston House

Charlestonians embraced the joggling board not only for its gentle rocking motion but also for its social possibilities. The board’s flexibility allows two people seated at opposite ends to bounce toward one another—a feature that inspired one of the most enduring pieces of joggling board folklore.

Charleston legend holds that a joggling board is a “courting bench.” If two people sit at opposite ends, the board naturally dips and sways, drawing them closer together. Many Lowcountry families claim that “a home with a joggling board will never be without suitors,” and some even credit the bench with sparking marriages across generations.

Whether or not the board truly possesses matchmaking magic, it has become a symbol of hospitality, romance, and Southern charm.

Though joggling boards fell out of fashion in the early 20th century, Charleston artisans and preservationists helped revive the tradition. Companies like The Joggle Factory and the Old Charleston Joggling Board Company continue to handcraft boards using the same principles—flexible Southern pine, graceful rockers, and that iconic Charleston green paint.

Today, joggling boards appear on porches, in gardens, at wedding venues, and even on college campuses. They’ve become a beloved emblem of Lowcountry culture—functional, whimsical, and steeped in history.

Lingering at Poogan’s Porch: A Charleston Landmark Restaurant

Poogan, the dog, was more than just a resident of the porch—he was its heart and soul. A scruffy, amiable mutt with a penchant for lounging in the sun and greeting every visitor with a wagging tail, Poogan became a beloved fixture long before the porch earned its name. Locals and travelers alike would pause to share a moment with him, drawn by his gentle presence and the quiet comfort he offered. His spirit lingers still, woven into the very boards of the porch, a reminder that some memories are best kept alive by those who simply choose to stay. The restaurant is also said to be haunted by Poogan.

There are places that feel like thresholds—not just onto porches, but into memory. Poogan’s Porch, nestled on busy Queen Street, is one of them. The wrought iron gate, cool beneath the palm, the sign swinging gently in the breeze. It all felt like a nod from the past.

Queen Street hummed, alive with pedestrians and chatter, but the porch held its own silence. It was a pause in the rhythm, a breath between beats. The scent of biscuits and rosemary butter curled through the air, drawing him toward the white tablecloths and black chairs. Crossing the threshold feels like you entering not just a restaurant, but a memory someone else had carefully preserved.

The waitress greeted him with a smile—practiced, perhaps, but still warm. “Welcome to Poogan’s. First time?”

“First time, yes. Maybe not in spirit.”

She laughed, jotting down his order for sweet tea and pimento cheese fritters. He settled into the chair, notebook resting on the table. He didn’t open it. He wanted to feel before he wrote.

The porch creaked underfoot as other diners shifted, laughter rising from a nearby table where shrimp and grits were being devoured with abandon. Magnolia leaves overhead filtered the sunlight into shifting mosaics across the tablecloth.

She arrived with the rush of someone caught in art—windblown hair, eyes bright from the sun. “Sorry I’m late. Queen Street swallowed me whole.”

He smiled. “This porch forgives lateness. It’s haunted by people who never wanted to leave.”

She settled in. “Then let’s join them.”

They ordered: she-crab soup for her, fried chicken for him. The waitress called them darlin’ as she walked away, and they both smiled at the cadence of it.

The food arrived, steaming and fragrant, and with it came the unraveling of words.

“You always chase places like this,” she said. “What are you hoping to find?”

“Proof,” he replied, cutting into the chicken. “That the past can be tasted. That memory has flavor.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then maybe the silence between bites is enough.”

They drifted into talk of shared moments—the kind that linger like shadows—and of beginnings, fragile as biscuits that crumble at the touch. The porch seemed to listen, its boards absorbing their voices, its air holding their confessions.

“You know,” she said, “I think this place is haunted.”

“By what?”

“By conversations like ours. By people who sat here, spoke truths, and never wanted them to end.”

He raised his glass. “Then let’s linger. Let’s haunt it a little ourselves.”

The meal stretched into afternoon. Sweet tea was refilled, plates cleared, but the conversation refused to end. The porch became less a restaurant and more a stage. A place where memory and presence braided together.

When they finally rose to leave, he glanced back at the sign. Poogan’s Porch. It no longer felt like a name. It felt like an invitation to return, to keep haunting, to keep tasting the past until it became the present again.

72 Queen Street, Charleston

Brunch Monday - Sunday, 9:00am - 3:00pm

Dinner Monday - Sunday, 4:30pm - 9:30pm

843-829-4332

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Victor's Seafood and Steak--Magnificent Marlins and Crisp Cocktails

John Carroll Doyle was truly a creative individual. A self-taught painter and photographer, he is internationally recognized for his energetic, light‑filled paintings of subjects as diverse as blues musicians, blue marlins, and blue hydrangeas. He produced iconic pieces that celebrated memories and stories of Southern culture, especially those of his beloved birthplace, Charleston. You can view his work at 125 Church Street, where the gallery now displays his original oils, photography, and over 100 high‑quality canvas reproductions. However, Doyle’s art is showcased throughout Charleston, and Victor’s Seafood and Steak is one of those honored places.

Victor’s Seafood and Steak was once known as the Victor Social Club. The Social Club was part of a multi‑establishment concept by Holy City Hospitality known as the Hutson Alley Project. Hutson Alley can be entered from both John Street and Hutson Street. It features a beautifully adorned brick‑lined, patterned cement walkway, evenly spaced palm trees, and black light posts, while green, leafy vines cover the building’s aged red‑brick walls. Each establishment had its own glass‑door entrance, marked by a rustic sliding steel door left over from the building’s storied past. Originally, there were hints of another registered name, The Blue Marlin Bar. Instead of adopting the name, the blue marlin motif was woven into the character of the Victor Social Club, now renamed Victor’s Seafood and Steak after taking over Michaels on the Alley.

Victor’s Seafood and Steak sits next to Vincent Chicco’s and shares the alley with Coast. The restaurant’s centerpiece bar dominates a richly decorated two‑story interior, awash in shades of white and black, radiating pure elegance. A life‑size John Doyle painting of a blue marlin hovering over a boat towers above the bar. The establishment offers signature cocktails—including barrel‑aged selections—alongside beer, wine, and walls lined with fish paintings, each paired with intimate seating for two. The refined dining room features plush booths, antique wares, and wildlife scenes.

We took seats at the bar, where two well‑spoken, mannerly young men dressed in black and wearing spectator shoes patiently awaited our orders. After a few questions about the unusual drink names on the menu and their helpful answers, I chose a potent cocktail called Midnight in Paris—a mix of Still Vanilla, lavender simple syrup, and lemon. There was no skimping on the alcohol. My companion for the night selected the Espresso Martini, topped with three brandy‑soaked cherries threaded on a silver hairpin stick. She described her drink as smooth, with a rich froth that recalled a fine Bailey’s Irish Cream.

We can only comment on the bar area of Victor’s Seafood and Steak, formerly Victor Social Club. We came solely for a few cocktails and the spacious ambience dominated by Doyle’s magnificent marlin painting. It was a superb experience with exquisite, sophisticated cocktails. Our interaction with the bartenders was very pleasant and entertaining. They shared stories and offered knowledgeable input on what to try. The restaurant will certainly be a future visit.

Bowens Island, Folly Creek, and My Margaritaville

Charleston has no shortage of places that capture the spirit of the Lowcountry, but Bowens Island and Folly Creek hold a special place in my heart. They’re not just destinations—they’re experiences, each with its own rhythm, flavor, and reminder of what it means to slow down and savor life.

Bowens Island Restaurant is one of those spots you’ll never forget. Perched at the edge of the marsh, it’s rustic, weathered, and unapologetically authentic. Don’t expect white tablecloths or polished décor—expect oyster shells piled high, picnic tables, and sunsets that paint the sky in colors no artist could replicate. If you go, order the fried shrimp or the oyster roast. The shrimp are crisp and perfectly seasoned, and the oysters—steamed over open flames—taste like the marsh itself, briny and rich. Pair it with a cold beer, and you’ll understand why locals keep coming back.

Just beyond Bowens Island lies Folly Creek, which I’ve come to think of as my own Margaritaville, minus the booze in the blender and brand-new tattoo. It’s where I take my kayak when I need to reset. If you’re planning a paddle, go in the morning when the tide is rising. The water is calm, the marsh birds are active, and the sun casts a golden glow across the grasses. You’ll likely spot dolphins playing in the creek—they surface with effortless grace, reminding you to find joy in simple moments.

On my last trip, I was lucky enough to see both dolphins and a great blue heron. The dolphins reminded me of playfulness, of living unburdened by the past. The heron, lifting slowly from the reeds, reminded me of renewal—patient, deliberate, rising steadily into the sky. Together, they became metaphors for my own healing journey.

Life doesn’t always unfold the way we expect. Relationships end, tides shift, and sometimes we’re left searching for balance. But places like Bowens Island and Folly Creek remind me that endings aren’t failures—they’re transitions. The tide goes out, but it always comes back in.

So, if you’re visiting Charleston, make time for Bowens Island. Order the oysters, linger over the view, and let the marsh remind you of the beauty in simplicity. And if you have a kayak, take it to Folly Creek. Paddle with the tide, watch for dolphins, and keep an eye out for the heron. You might just find, as I did, that the water has a way of carrying you forward—not with regret, but with gratitude and hope.

Where the Tide Turns Between the IOP and Sullivan's Island—A True Story

There’s a place on Sullivan’s Island where the water narrows and the current quickens. It is a place where the Atlantic meets the Intracoastal, where tides collide and the sea decides who stays and who drifts away. It’s a place that doesn’t ask questions but somehow answers them anyway. The place is Breach Inlet.

I went there this morning, hoping for stillness. I brought a book I didn’t open and a Yeti of sweet tea I barely touched. The sky was a perfect blue, the kind that makes you forget anything could ever go wrong. But the inlet—it knows better. It’s seen too much to be fooled by the weather.

The sands here are never still. I have watched their transformation through the years. They shift with each tide, reshaping the shoreline like a restless artist never satisfied with the last sketch. One day there’s a crescent of beach wide enough to walk barefoot for hours; the next, it’s swallowed whole, replaced by a churning ribbon of water. Locals say the inlet has a memory, that it remembers storms and shipwrecks, and that it never forgets.

Out in the current, a pod of dolphins surfaced, their sleek backs catching the morning light. They moved with the tide, weaving through the eddies like dancers in a slow, ancient ballet. I watched them for a long time, their presence both playful and profound, as if they too were drawn to the mystery of this place.

And then there’s the new house on the point—glass and stucco, all clean lines and quiet luxury. It stands where the old house used to lean, weather-beaten and wise. The new place is beautiful, no doubt, but it hasn’t earned its stories yet. It hasn’t heard the wind howl through hurricane shutters or watched the moon rise over a sea turned silver. It’s still learning the language of the inlet.

On the drive over, just past Patriots Point, I saw something that stopped me cold. A woman walking hand in hand with a man. Her hair caught the light in a familiar way that took me by surprise. It was someone I once knew—someone I once hoped to know better. She didn’t see me. I didn’t stop. But the moment stayed. It appeared the ocean breeze was not blowing in my favor.

I sat in my car for a long time after that, watching the water shimmer like nothing had changed. But something had—not in the world—in me. There’s a quiet kind of sadness that comes when you realize a door you’d left open has quietly closed. No slam. No drama. Just the soft click of finality.

I walked the shoreline barefoot, letting the tide wash over my feet. The inlet curved ahead like a question mark, and I followed it—not looking for answers, just letting the water carry my thoughts. Some places feel like endings, even when they’re beautiful. And some people stay with you, even when they’re gone. I won’t write about that epiphany again—not directly. But she’ll be there: in the spaces between sentences, in the hush between tides, in the way the marsh holds its breath before the wind returns.

Breach Inlet doesn’t truly belong to anyone. It’s a threshold, a breath caught between tides. It is a place where the land exhales and the sea inhales, where endings blur into beginnings. If you sit with it long enough, in stillness and silence, it might whisper something you didn’t know you needed to hear. The current there has a mind of its own, often carrying you in directions you never intended. And when resistance feels futile, sometimes the only choice—the wisest one—is simply to let go and float.

Echoes Beneath the Vaulted Ceiling: The Story of Charleston’s Union Station

Fire is like a two-edged sword: it giveth and it taketh. It is both hospitable and hostile. It reclaims what has been taken and reshapes what has already been formed. It is a merciless entity, absent of malice. It does only what it is destined to do, bound by the laws of nature.

Fire has played a notable role in the evolution of Charleston’s cityscape—in the years 1698, 1740, 1778, 1812, and 1947. Like that two-edged sword, it has cleared the way for a more durable metropolitan landscape, but in doing so, it has consumed some of the city’s most celebrated architectural masterpieces.

In the heart of Charleston’s historic peninsula, where East Bay Street meets Columbus, once stood a monument to movement, ambition, and architectural grace: Union Station, a grand passenger terminal that served as the city’s rail gateway from 1907 to 1947. Though long vanished from the skyline, its memory lingers in the Lowcountry’s collective imagination—an echo of steam whistles, polished shoes on tiled floors, and lantern light flickering beneath vaulted ceilings.

Union Station was born of necessity and vision. In 1902, the South Carolina General Assembly chartered the Charleston Union Station Company, a joint venture by three major railroads—Atlantic Coast Line, Southern Railway, and Seaboard Air Line. Their goal: to consolidate passenger services into a single, elegant terminal worthy of Charleston’s stature.

Construction began in 1905, and by November 1907, the station opened its doors. With its classical architecture, arched windows, and ornate murals, Union Station was more than a transit point—it was a civic landmark. Travelers arriving from Savannah, Richmond, or Washington stepped into a space that felt both grand and intimate, where the rhythms of rail travel met the rituals of Southern hospitality.

Illustration of Union Station

Though few photographs survive, contemporary accounts describe a station of impressive scale and detail. The checkerboard tile floors, hanging lanterns, and decorative columns created a sense of ceremony. Ceiling murals were a defining feature of the station’s interior, contributing to its classical and civic grandeur. These murals likely included scenes of ships, harbors, and historical vignettes, consistent with Charleston’s identity as a port city and its colonial and Revolutionary War legacy. The murals were described as elaborate and atmospheric, helping elevate the station from a mere transit hub to a place of cultural and architectural significance.

The station was a stage for everyday drama: soldiers departing for war, families reuniting, porters wheeling trunks beneath the gaze of stationmasters in brass-buttoned coats. It was a place where time paused between arrivals and departures, and where Charleston’s social tapestry—black and white, rich and poor—briefly converged.

On a cold morning in January 1947, Union Station was destroyed by fire. The Charleston Fire Department responded quickly, but the station’s wooden framing and open interior spaces allowed the flames to spread rapidly. Despite efforts to contain the blaze, the entire structure was engulfed and ultimately destroyed in hours. Archival records from the Charleston County Public Library’s Fire Department collection document the event as one of the city’s most significant structural losses of the mid-20th century. No definitive cause for the blaze was ever confirmed in public records. The building's destruction marked the end of an era.

Following the fire, rail services were rerouted. The Charleston Union Station Company, which had operated the facility, gradually dissolved its operations. A collection of 183 scanned documents, including letters and newspaper clippings from 1947 to 1954, is preserved in the Southern Railway Historical Association archives, offering firsthand accounts of the fire’s impact.

Charleston never rebuilt a central passenger terminal of comparable grandeur. Instead, rail travel gradually shifted northward. Amtrak eventually established its presence in North Charleston, and by the 21st century, the original site of Union Station had faded into obscurity—its footprint absorbed by urban development, its memory preserved only in archives and anecdotes.

Union Station was more than a building—it was a portal. It connected Charleston to the wider world and offered a glimpse of modernity wrapped in classical beauty. Its destruction left a void not just in infrastructure, but in the city’s architectural soul.

Today, as Charleston balances preservation with progress, Union Station reminds us of what once was: a place where movement met meaning, and where the hum of locomotives underscored the quiet heroism of everyday life.