“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.