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.