The Point House on Sullivan's Island--A Lost Seaside Hotel of the Early 19th Century

Long before the grand piazzas of the Moultrie House Hotel glittered along the shoreline, Sullivan’s Island had a quieter, humbler resort culture centered around a now‑vanished landmark: the Point House. Operating in the early decades of the 1800s, the Point House was one of the island’s first dedicated seaside hotels—a place where Charlestonians escaped the heat, sought the tonic of salt air, and watched the great ships of the Atlantic glide toward the harbor.

Though overshadowed by later, more opulent establishments, the Point House played a formative role in the island’s early identity as a summer refuge. Its destruction in the Great Hurricane of 1854 erased it from the landscape, but not from the island’s layered memory.

The hotel stood near the harbor-facing point of Sullivan’s Island, the easternmost end where the Atlantic meets the channel leading into Charleston. This position gave the hotel unbroken views of incoming vessels, constant sea breezes sweeping across its piazzas, and immediate proximity to Fort Moultrie, whose guns and parade grounds were part of the daily soundscape. The name “Point House” was not poetic invention. It was literal. It was the house at the point.

The Point House was typical of early 19th‑century coastal boarding houses. It was a two‑story wooden structure raised slightly above the sand with broad piazzas facing the water and simple guest rooms, often shared by families. A communal dining room served local fish, rice dishes, and garden vegetables. There was a bathing house or simple changing shed near the surf.

It lacked the grandeur of later antebellum resorts, but it had something else: proximity to the raw edge of the sea. Guests described the constant wind, the salt spray drifting across the porch railings, and the nightly spectacle of lantern-lit ships entering the harbor.

The Point House catered primarily to Charleston families escaping summer fevers, military officers and visiting dignitaries from Fort Moultrie, and travelers arriving by ferry from Charleston’s wharves. Sea‑bathing was the great attraction. Visitors rose early to walk down to the surf, where enslaved attendants often assisted bathers in the water—a common practice in the era. Evenings brought music, card games, and long conversations on the piazza as the harbor lights flickered across the waves.

On September 7, 1854, one of the most violent storms of the 19th century struck Sullivan’s Island head‑on. The storm surge swept across the island, flattening structures from the Point to Breach Inlet. The Point House was completely destroyed. Charleston newspapers from the week following the storm reported that not a trace of the building remained—only scattered timbers and the memory of a place that had served generations of summer visitors. A letter from Edward Barnwell, dated September 11, 1854, describes the destruction of cottages near the Moultrie House and confirms the widespread damage to early structures on the island. It was never rebuilt. By the time the island recovered, the newer and larger Moultrie House Hotel had become the island’s dominant resort.

Today, nothing marks the site of the Point House. The shoreline has shifted, storms have reshaped the dunes, and the island’s early wooden structures have long since vanished. However, the Point House represents an important chapter in Sullivan’s Island’s evolution—a reminder that before the Civil War, before the grand hotels, before the modern beach cottages, there was a simple wooden house at the edge of the sea where Charlestonians first learned to love the island’s windswept beauty.

Here’s a cinematic arrival scene set in 1828, the way Edgar Allan Poe could have seen it.

The ferry bumped gently against the island’s landing, the ropes thrown and caught with practiced ease. The passengers stepped down one by one, blinking into the brightness of the afternoon. The air smelled of salt and sun‑warmed pluff mud, and the wind carried the distant, rhythmic boom of surf striking the shoreline.

A sandy road stretched ahead, winding past a scatter of summer cottages and the low, angular walls of Fort Moultrie. Beyond the fort, the horizon shimmered with heat, and somewhere past that mirage lay the Point House—the old boarding hotel perched at the island’s farthest edge.

Their trunks followed in a rattling cart as they walked, the breeze tugging at hats and hems. The fort’s flag snapped overhead, its shadow sliding across the parade ground where a handful of soldiers drilled in the sun. One of them paused to watch the newcomers pass, curiosity flickering across his face before he returned to his formation.

Past the fort, the road narrowed to a sandy footpath. The sound of the ocean grew louder, fuller—not the gentle hush of a beach, but the deep, rolling sound of the Atlantic meeting the harbor mouth. The dunes rose and fell like wind‑carved hills, their grasses bending in long, synchronized waves. Then, the Point House appeared.

It stood alone on the open sand, a long, weathered structure lifted on stout wooden pilings. Its wide piazza faced the sea, the shutters thrown open to catch the wind. The building seemed to breathe with the island—creaking softly, its railings gleaming with salt.

A few guests lingered on the porch; their silhouettes framed against the bright water. A woman in a pale dress held her bonnet to her hair as the wind swept across the piazza. A pair of children chased each other between the rocking chairs.

As the newcomers approached, the surf thundered against the Point, sending a fine mist drifting across the sand. The hotel’s sign, Point House painted in fading letters, swung gently from its iron bracket.

A man stepped out to greet them, his coat flapping behind him like a sail. “Welcome to the Point,” he said, raising his voice above the wind. “You’ll find the sea a bit lively today, but she’s in a good mood.” Behind him, the Atlantic stretched wide and glittering, ships gliding toward the harbor entrance. The whole world felt open, wind‑swept, alive.

As they climbed the steps to the piazza, the boards warm beneath their feet, a sense of arrival settled over them—not just at a hotel, but at a threshold. A place where the land narrowed, the sea widened, and the air itself seemed to whisper that something was about to begin.

Sullivan's Island in the 1850s--The Moultrie House Hotel: Charleston’s Lost Seaside Palace

Long before Sullivan’s Island became a quiet beach community of pastel cottages and summer porches, it was a place of contrasts. It was both a military outpost and fashionable retreat, windswept wilderness and social playground. In the 1850s, the island stood at a crossroads between old coastal traditions and the rising tide of antebellum leisure culture. Today, little remains of that world. Nonetheless, with a bit of imagination and a few surviving accounts, we can step back onto the island and see it as it once was.

In the mid‑19th century, Sullivan’s Island was still largely untamed. Sand dunes rolled along the shoreline. Sea oats bent in the wind. The Atlantic crashed in long, rhythmic lines against a beach that stretched unbroken for miles. There were no paved roads, no rows of houses, no bustling commercial district. Instead, visitors found a handful of summer cottages in the village of Moultrieville, a scattering of military buildings around Fort Moultrie, and the great Moultrie House Hotel, a wooden palace rising above the dunes. It was a place where the horizon felt close enough to touch.

Even in its most peaceful years, Sullivan’s Island was shaped by the presence of Fort Moultrie, the historic stronghold guarding Charleston Harbor. Visitors to the Moultrie House Hotel could often hear the distant thud of cannon practice or see soldiers marching along the beach road. The mingling of military discipline and seaside leisure gave the island a unique character—half resort, half fortress.

Charleston families flocked to Sullivan’s Island each summer to escape the heat and the threat of mosquito‑borne illness. The island’s constant breeze made it feel safer, cleaner, and infinitely more refreshing than the city’s narrow streets.

By the 1850s, the island had become a seasonal social hub, a place for balls, promenades, and seaside dinners. A retreat where families mingled, flirtations blossomed, and reputations were quietly made or unmade. The Moultrie House Hotel stood at the center of this world, offering luxury, entertainment, and a vantage point over the Atlantic that felt almost otherworldly.

The Moultrie House Hotel was located directly on the beachfront just west of Fort Moultrie, on the southern end of Sullivan’s Island. It was close enough that someone standing on the fort’s ramparts could look down the shoreline and see the hotel’s long piazzas facing the Atlantic. It rose above the sand like a great ship run aground. It was two hundred and fifty feet of sun‑bleached boards and broad piazzas lifted on stout pilings. Its verandas stretched the entire length of the façade like open arms welcoming the summer elite of Charleston.

Guests arrived at the hotel by way of the Moultrieville Rail and Plank Company, a short horse-drawn railway which ran from the ferry landing at the Cove. After disembarking, passengers boarded the horse-drawn rail cars and were carried directly to the hotel's front door. Ladies in gauzy muslins stepped down beneath parasols, their skirts stirring in the salt breeze, while porters hurried forward to gather trunks and hatboxes. The air smelled of sea grass, warm pine, and the faint mineral tang of the ocean.

Inside, the hotel breathed luxury of the distinctly Southern kind with high ceilings, polished floors, and rooms arranged to catch every possible breeze. The great ballroom occupied the eastern wing, its folding doors thrown wide so that music could spill out toward the dunes. On summer evenings, the glow of chandeliers shimmered through tall multipaned windows, and the melodic line of a quadrille drifted across the sand.

During the day, guests wandered the wide piazzas, shaded from the sun yet open to the endless horizon. Gentlemen in linen coats leaned against the railings, watching the surf break in long, even lines. Children darted between the posts, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic creak of the hotel’s windmill pumping fresh water from the cisterns. Farther down the beach, the ladies’ bath house stood discreetly apart, its wooden slats bleached by salt and sun.

By late afternoon, the entire establishment seemed to settle into a kind of golden idleness. The heat softened, the sea turned a deeper blue, and the hotel’s long façade glowed as if lit from within. Servants moved quietly through the halls preparing for supper, while guests gathered on the piazza to watch the sun sink behind the distant spires of Charleston. In that hour, with the breeze lifting the curtains and the scent of the ocean drifting through every open door, the Moultrie House felt less like a hotel and more like a world unto itself—an elegant refuge suspended between sea and sky, untouched by the daily concerns on the mainland.

The Moultrie House offered "no deficiency of amusements," said Dr. Irving, adding that among its many amenities were four billiard tables and three bowling saloons. There were horses for riding, boats for fishing and "none but the choicest liquors." It offered an inspiring view of the Harbor and Bay of Charleston while the Atlantic Ocean surf spilled onto its wide beach, not many feet from the Hotel.

“Anyone who was anyone” stayed there. It quickly gained national attention as a premier Southern resort. The Moultrie House Hotel’s reputation was so favorable that people came from the entire eastern seaboard. "I never saw anything like it before," wrote William Gilmore Simms.

In 1861, as Sullivan's Island turned from resort to a Confederate military post, the hotel served as housing for Confederate officers, which made it a ready target for Union bombardments. Union officer Abner Doubleday, a captain and second in command at Fort Sumter and author of Reminiscences of Forts Sumter and Moultrie in 1860-61, described firing on the Moultrie House Hotel during the first bombardment. He recounted, “Just before the attack was made upon us…I aimed two forty-two pounder balls at the upper story. The crashing of the shot, which went through the whole length of the building among the clapboards and interior partitions, must have been something fearful to those who were within." 

Following the war, attempts were made to re-establish the Moultrie House Hotel to its former grandeur. However, times had changed. Gone are the great ante-bellum days of wealthy plantation owners seeking elegant surroundings in which to spend the summer season.

Today, there are no hotels on Sullivan's Island. The island is home to a close-knit community of a little over 2,000 residents, who enjoy a small-town charm and relaxed lifestyle. It is well known for its soft, white sandy beaches where families enjoy picnics and swimming, while the calm waters are perfect for relaxation. Visitors can still explore historical sites like Fort Moultrie and enjoy local dining options ranging from barbecue to gourmet cuisine at its award-winning restaurants, Poe's Tavern being a local favorite. It is an ideal destination for both relaxation and adventure.

The Nation's Longest Operating Liquor Store and an Entertaining Side Story: The Day the Parrot Outsmarted the Pirates

What most visitors don’t realize—while they’re lining up pastel façades in their camera lenses or setting up easels beneath the shade of palmettos—is that Rainbow Row has witnessed more than its share of mischief. One of the most beloved stories, still whispered by old‑timers in the French Quarter, involves a pirate, a parrot, and the very liquor shop that claims the title of the oldest in the nation.

According to local lore, sometime in the early 1700s, a member of Stede Bonnet’s crew—an overconfident fellow named Red Tom Mallory—stumbled out of the waterfront taverns in search of more rum. He was loud, unsteady, and accompanied by a parrot with a vocabulary so colorful it could make a sailor blush. The bird, named Captain Pickles, was said to have been trained to mimic Bonnet’s voice with uncanny accuracy.

Red Tom swaggered into the liquor shop demanding a private cask “on the authority of Captain Bonnet himself.” The shopkeeper, unimpressed and entirely sober, refused. But Captain Pickles, perched on Tom’s shoulder, suddenly squawked in a perfect imitation of Bonnet’s clipped Barbadian accent: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The shopkeeper froze. The voice was unmistakable. Bonnet had been in Charleston only days earlier, and no one wanted to risk crossing a pirate captain with a reputation for unpredictable moods. So, the cask was handed over.

Red Tom strutted out triumphantly—only to be immediately intercepted by the city watch. They had been tracking him since he’d knocked over a fishmonger’s stall earlier that morning. As the watchmen hauled him away, Captain Pickles flapped to a nearby balcony and began loudly repeating the phrase: “Give the man the rum, you scurvy‑minded barnacle!”

The parrot’s performance drew such a crowd that the watchmen lost their grip on Red Tom, who slipped away into the maze of alleys behind East Bay Street. Captain Pickles, however, remained on his balcony perch, where he was adopted by the family living there. For years afterward, the bird would shout pirate insults at unsuspecting passersby, startling tourists, merchants, and even a few dignitaries.

Some say the parrot lived to a venerable age, long enough to greet the first wave of artists who began painting Rainbow Row in the early 20th century. Others insist the whole tale is nonsense. But if you ask the right Charlestonian—preferably one who’s had a drink or two—they’ll tell you that on quiet mornings, when the tide is low and the breeze comes off the Cooper River just so, you can still hear a faint voice echoing between the pastel walls: “Give the man the rum!”

The Tavern at Rainbow Row dates as far back as 1686, according to documents and maps discovered in Scotland and the Netherlands. Quite possibly, Captain William Carse and the crew of the Magdalen from Edinburgh purchased liquor here in August of 1743 after unloading their cargo of salt, sailcloth, and, among other items, ninety‑six mashies (golf clubs) and four hundred thirty‑two featheries (golf balls) consigned to David Deas, a Scottish emigrant who had become a successful Charleston merchant.

Through its three centuries of business, The Tavern has endured the test of time—sometimes unstoppable, sometimes hard‑pressed. It survived the Revolutionary War and the incessant pummeling from Federal cannons during the Civil War, not to mention numerous historic fires and the catastrophic earthquake of 1886 that brought down hundreds of Charleston’s buildings.

Thomas Coates apparently purchased or constructed this group of commercial buildings by 1806. It served as the meeting place of Charleston's Jacobin Club in the 1790s, a group largely made up of French immigrants who wholeheartedly embraced the spirit of the French Revolution. This group of commercial buildings was also known as Coates's Row.

The Tavern, 120 East Bay Street, has been known by more than a few names, including The Tavern on the Bluffs, Harris’s Tavern, the French Coffee House, and Mrs. Coates’s Tavern by the Bay. In 1903, it became a “Whiskey Store” during an era when it was illegal to buy a drink, even if it was served in a teacup. Disguised as a barbershop through Prohibition, it sold liquor from a back room. A latched door at the rear of the shop led to an underground tunnel that once moved moonshine to speakeasies—then known as “blind tigers.”

The Blind Tiger Pub building on Broad Street has such an underground tunnel, which can also be entered through a latched door at the back of the building. Those wanting a drink would have had to sneak one in one of the tunnel’s many dark nooks. Whether the two tunnels connected is open to question. At this point, I must insert a bit of caution: like many stories from Charleston’s past, you must measure its factuality with a grain of Carolina Gold. Following Repeal, the Tavern returned to legal status. It has been the nation’s oldest spirits store in continuous operation. Now that bit of information is as bona fide as its Bluffton Whiskey.

The original building is divided into three separate addresses. By law, spirits must be sold separately from wine and beer. The middle section, which sells wine and beer, is the most fascinating of the three. Its brick front exterior at 118 East Bay Street features an arched double door flanked by two arched windows, and, directly above it, a double‑window second‑floor extension—added by Coates in the early 1840s—all painted in dark green. Inside, the current owners have preserved the shop’s legacy by restoring its interior, showcasing original hardwood floors and brick walls alongside antique furnishings from around the world—a bookshelf from the Library of Congress and an artisan’s worktable from France. In one of the adjoining rooms is the mysterious latched door leading to the underground.

The third section of the building is unused—once a gallery. Future plans include opening the wall where the beer taps are currently located and converting the unused section into a drinking space with a garden patio outside.

The Tavern specializes in local and rare spirits, including a five‑grain bourbon made with a Carolina rice variety (Seashore Black Rye) once thought to be extinct, and Carolina Gold; a black tea liqueur produced by the only large‑scale tea plantation in the U.S. (the Charleston Tea Plantation); and a vodka distilled from rye grown on South Carolina’s Edisto Island. To acquaint visitors with the unfamiliar, the shop also offers weekly tastings.

The Tavern at Rainbow Row has been featured on Southern Charm, Moonshiners, History’s Most Haunted, and Atlas Obscura. With a multifaceted history and a singular focus, The Tavern has stayed true to its reason for being and has never stopped distributing booze. Now that makes for one happy sailor.

120 E Bay St, next door to the Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon.

A Lowcountry Legend from Runnymede Plantation—and the History that Shaped it

Runnymede Plantation 1917

In the Lowcountry, history is never just something you read in books. It breathes. It clings to the air like humidity, settles into the marsh grass, and whispers beneath the live oaks. Some stories rise from that landscape with such insistence that they become part of the region’s cultural marrow. The tale of what happened at Runnymede Plantation one September afternoon is one of them.

The year has slipped from memory, but the season has not. It was late summer, the kind of day when the Ashley River glints like hammered pewter and the cicada's drone with a last burst of bravado. Two brothers from Charleston—teenagers on the verge of leaving for school in another state—had come to Runnymede for a final outing before their departure. The plantation had long been a place of adventure for them, a patchwork of riverbank, marsh, and forest where boys could roam freely and imagine themselves explorers.

Runnymede Plantation today

Runnymede’s landscape, like much of the Lowcountry, is a living archive of natural and human history. Alligators patrol the rice‑field canals. Egrets lift from the reeds in sudden white flashes. And tucked deep within the woods are remnants of a past that is neither forgotten nor fully at rest. It was there, in the quiet shade of the forest, that the brothers stumbled upon an old slave burial ground.

To the untrained eye, the graves might have seemed simple—mounds of earth, weathered by time. But atop each one lay a careful arrangement of personal belongings: plates, cups, tools, a favorite chair, a bottle of medicine with a spoon resting beside it. These were not random objects. They were part of a tradition carried to the Lowcountry by Africans, rooted in West African cosmology. The practice—placing the deceased’s possessions atop the grave—reflected a belief that the boundary between the living and the dead was permeable. Objects used in life could accompany the spirit into the next world. To disturb them was to disturb the dead themselves.

By the nineteenth century, this tradition had become deeply woven into Gullah‑Geechee culture. Even those who did not personally believe in the spiritual consequences respected the custom. It was an act of reverence, a recognition of humanity in a world that had denied it. The brothers knew the stories. Everyone in the Lowcountry did. But youth have a way of mistaking knowledge for immunity.

Seeing the objects laid out on the graves, the boys decided to play what they considered a harmless prank. They lifted a drinking glass from one of the mounds—laughing, perhaps, at the idea of “superstition”—and carried it home to Charleston as a souvenir. Their parents did not share their amusement.

They weren’t believers in curses, but they understood the weight of what had been done. The issue was not fear of spirits. It was respect—respect for the people buried at Runnymede, for the descendants who still lived nearby, and for the cultural traditions that had survived enslavement, war, and time itself. The parents contacted the plantation owners immediately. The glass was returned to the burial ground and placed exactly where it had been. But word had already spread among the community at Runnymede. And the consensus was quiet, solemn, and unwavering. It was too late.

The next morning, the brothers boarded the jet for school. They never arrived. The details of the tragedy have blurred with retelling—some say an accident, others a sudden illness—but the outcome was the same. When news reached Runnymede, no one expressed shock. No one questioned how such misfortune could have happened. Among those who held fast to the old beliefs, the explanation was simple. The spirits had been disturbed.

Whether one believes in supernatural retribution or not, the tale endures because it speaks to something deeper than folklore. It is a reminder of the cultural traditions carried by Africans—traditions that survived against all odds and still shape the Lowcountry’s identity. It is also a story about reverence: for the past, and for the communities whose histories are too often overlooked.

Runnymede Plantation, like so many places in the South, holds layers of memory. Some are beautiful. Some are painful. All deserve respect. And sometimes, the land itself seems to insist on it.

Note: This story is a mix of some fiction and historical facts. However, it is associated with an actual event.

Runnymede Plantation is not open to the public. It is used for special events and weddings.

The only Luxury Hotel on the Historic French Quarter Waterfront--The Cooper Hotel Opens in March

Stand at the edge of Waterfront Park’s long pier, where the swings drift lazily over the water and the salt air carries the faintest trace of pluff mud, and look north toward the shoreline. Rising above the harbor, six stories of glass and contemporary architecture now join Charleston’s steeple‑studded skyline. This is the city’s newest mega‑complex, a modern counterpart to Charleston Place with one striking distinction: it will soon host the only luxury hotel on the historic French Quarter waterfront.

For decades, the view here was dominated by Carnival’s Ecstasy and Sunshine, their towering silhouettes anchored the horizon whenever they were in port. But the era of cruise‑ship giants has slipped quietly into memory. As the Carnival Cruise Line faded into the city’s past, The Cooper Hotel has stepped confidently into its future.

It’s easy to forget that Charleston’s historic district wasn’t always the polished jewel it is today. Before the 1980s, King Street was lined with empty storefronts, and the city’s architectural heritage felt more forgotten than celebrated. Then came Joe Riley’s bold vision: the construction of Charleston Place, a catalyst that reignited the city’s cultural flame and restored Charleston to its rightful place as a world‑class travel destination.

The Cooper complex is slated as “the first extraordinary step in the reimagining of Charleston’s storied waterfront.” Its diverse amenities are world‑class and, like Charleston Place, will be open to residents, visitors, and global travelers eager to experience the charm and hospitality of Charleston’s commercially and recreationally welcoming spirit.

Image from thecooper.com

Inside, the Cooper will feature boutique retail, a 12,000‑square‑foot spa and fitness center, and nearly 20,000 square feet of event space. Dining concepts include its signature restaurant, The Crossing, serving culinary creations by Executive Chef Nick Dugan, and a casual eatery, Current Burger, offering elevated comfort foods such as juicy smash burgers and hand‑spun milkshakes. Up top, guests will find cinematic views: the graceful sweep of the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge to the left, the pineapple fountain glimmering to the right, and the harbor unfolding in between. Finally, beside The Cooper Marina, a café called Cooper Coffee & Wine will round out the offerings.

Image from thecooper.com

The hotel’s 191 accommodations—sun‑drenched rooms and suites with sweeping water views—promise a serene, coastal‑luxury retreat. But the crown jewel may be the outdoor infinity‑edge pool, a shimmering ribbon of blue suspended above the harbor. Already touted as one of the most impressive pool experiences in the Southeast, it features its own bar, Bar Marti, offering the kind of atmosphere that invites you to lose track of time.

Image from thecooper.com

Beyond the hotel, the Cooper’s waterfront green space will seamlessly extend Joe Riley Waterfront Park, continuing the pathway more than 400 feet to Fleet Landing Restaurant & Bar. A new dock and marina will welcome boaters, while hotel guests will have access to three private vessels—including a yacht for intimate dinners and events, and a water taxi to Daniel Island. Guests at BHC‑affiliated properties, such as Charleston Place, will also enjoy these privileges.

Image from thecooper.com

Soon, the quiet stretch of Concord Street between Cumberland and Vendue Range will transform into a vibrant corridor of five‑star luxury when the Cooper Hotel opens in the spring of 2026. It promises to reshape the French Quarter waterfront in a way that feels both forward‑looking and unmistakably Charleston.

And if you’re already imagining yourself there, you’re not alone. I can picture it now: the rooftop bar glowing at golden hour, the harbor shifting from honey to indigo, a signature cocktail in hand. And yes, booking a room just to slip into that infinity‑edge pool might be the most irresistible indulgence of all.

Accommodations

176 Concord Street, Charleston, SC