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.

“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.

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.

The Whispering Alphabet of Runnymede Plantation

The moon hung low over the Ashley River, its pale reflection trembling across the black water like a secret trying not to be spoken. Beneath its glow, Runnymede Plantation stood like a monument to memory itself—its chimney a solitary sentinel rose into the sky, its oaks draped in Spanish moss that swayed like mourning veils in the humid breeze. An impressive avenue of live oaks led to the haunting estate, their limbs arching overhead like cathedral vaults. A second avenue, consisting of a skyline hedge of Southern Magnolias, bordered the garden in fragrant silence, their waxy blossoms glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Elias Carrington had come alone. In his hands he carried the parchment containing the verses written by Poe as he strolled the garden. The edges were brittle, the ink faded in places, but the rhythm of the lines still pulsed with eerie vitality. Local lore held that Poe had been a frequent visitor, slipping away from Fort Moultrie during his brief military posting in Charleston to wander the plantation’s shadowed paths, drawn to Runnymede’s spectral beauty and the strange Alphabet Walk that twisted through its gardens like a living cipher.

He was seen once, they said, beneath the Cypress tree at twilight, murmuring lines to himself and scribbling furiously in a leather-bound journal. The gardener’s daughter swore she saw him bury something beneath the tree—a scroll, perhaps, or a letter sealed with wax and marked with a raven.

Nothing prepared Elias for the visceral unease that crept into his bones as he stepped onto the Alphabet Walk. The trees loomed like sentinels of an ancient code; each one marked with a brass plaque bearing a single letter. A for Ash, B for Birch, C for Cypress… and so on, winding deep into the garden’s heart.

He paused beneath the twisted limbs of a Hackberry tree marked with an H. The plaque was tarnished, but beneath the grime he saw a faint engraving: “Heed the hush.” He turned. The wind had stopped. The garden was silent. Then came the whisper. It wasn’t a voice, not exactly. More like a memory brushing past his ear. A line of verse, half-formed and aching to be remembered:

"In twilight’s hush where shadows creep,

And ancient oaks their secrets keep,

I wandered lost through paths of lore,

Where time had locked a hidden door."

Elias scribbled it down in his notebook, heart pounding. He had found the first clue.

The Alphabet Walk twisted unexpectedly, leading him to a grove where the trees grew closer together, their branches interlaced like the strands of a wicker chair. Here, the letters grew stranger—Q for Quince, X for Xylosma, Z for Zelkova. Poe had walked this path. It was said Poe had whispered his poem into the bark of these trees, each line a cipher, each stanza a map.

"U urges fate to turn its face,

V veils the vow of love’s embrace,

W wakes the wind to cry,

X marks the spot where secrets lie."

At the base of the Zelkova, Elias found a stone half-buried in moss. It bore a carving: a raven in flight, its wings outstretched over a scroll. Beneath it, a single word etched in Latin: “Veritas.” The final lines of Poe’s poem read:

"But truth is not for hearts untried—

It waits where sea and soul collide.

Seek not the gold, nor glory’s flame,

But speak the word that none dare name."

Elias stood in the hush of the garden, the wind returning with a sigh through the magnolias. He felt the weight of time pressing against him—not just the plantation’s haunted past, but the burden of secrets kept too long. Somewhere, beneath the sand and salt of Sullivan’s Island, a scroll waited. And on it, the name of a treasure lost to time.

But tonight, the garden had given him its first whisper. And the Alphabet Walk, it seemed, was only beginning to speak.

The Haunting Ashley River Plantation Just a Buggy Ride from Magnolia Plantation

The Shell and the Shadow on Sullivan's Island

The morning sun had just begun to stretch its golden streamers across the Atlantic, casting long shadows over the damp sand. The tide was low, and the beach lay quiet, save for the rhythmic hush of waves folding into themselves. A young woman wandered barefoot along the shoreline, her family still asleep in the cottage tucked behind the dunes. She moved slowly, stooping now and then to collect seashells—small, imperfect things that caught the light in curious ways.

She paused to examine one: a pale pink spiral with a smooth, iridescent interior and a jagged, barnacled edge. Turning it in her palm, she felt the contrast between its polished heart and weathered skin. That was when she noticed him.

A man stood several yards away, fully clothed in dark attire that seemed out of place against the brightness of the beach. He faced the ocean, unmoving, as if listening to something beneath the waves. His silhouette was stark—long coat, long hair, and a stillness that felt deliberate.

She looked back down at the shell, hoping to avoid eye contact. But when she glanced up again, he had moved closer. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make her pulse quicken. She pretended to study the shell more intently, but then he spoke.

“Would you like to know more about that one?” His voice was soft, almost melodic, and it caught her off guard.

She looked up timidly. His eyes were dark—so dark they seemed to absorb the light around them—and his hair fell in loose waves past his shoulders. Despite her initial unease, something in his presence calmed her. He spoke again, and the tension in her chest began to dissolve.

He described the shell in poetic detail: its pink hue, the way its interior shimmered like mother-of-pearl, the roughness of its outer ridges shaped by years of tumbling in the surf. He spoke of its origins, its journey, its silent history. She listened, entranced, as if the shell were a relic from another world and he its interpreter.

She bent to pick up another shell, eager to hear more. But when she rose, he was gone. She scanned the beach. No footprints. No movement. Only the dunes stood behind her, silent and still. Perhaps he had wandered back over them. Perhaps he had never been there at all. Clutching her small trove of shells, she walked back to the cottage, the encounter lingering in her thoughts like a half-remembered dream.

That evening, her family dined at Poe's Tavern—a cozy place with creaky floors and the scent of salt and old wood. As they waited for dessert, she wandered toward the fireplace, drawn by a painting that hung above it. The image was dark, brooding: a man in black, his eyes deep and penetrating, his expression unreadable. Her breath caught. It was him.

She stared, heart thudding, then turned to the nearest server. “Excuse me,” she said, pointing to the painting. “Do you know who that is?”

The server glanced up, then smiled politely. “Oh yes, dear. That’s Edgar Allan Poe.”

The young woman blinked. “Poe?”

“Yes. He spent time in Charleston, you know. Some say he still does.”

The server chuckled and walked away, but the young woman remained rooted to the spot, staring into the painted eyes that had once watched the waves beside her.

___Story based on article Stranger on the Beach: One Vacationer Encounters a Famous Sullivan’s Island Specter

2025 Dunleavy's Polar Bear Plunge on Sullivan's Island--A Real Cool Time

Every year on January 1, after a night of celebration, Lowcountry residents gather on the beaches of Charleston's barrier islands to take a plunge into the Atlantic's cooler waters. I say cooler waters because in the heat of the summer months the ocean around Charleston reaches a temperature of 83.5 degrees, which was the high temperature this past August 2024. The ocean temperature on Jan 1, 2025, was 57 degrees.

The two barrier islands who host a polar bear plunge are Folly Beach near its famous pier and Tides Hotel, and Sullivan's Islands at Station 22 1/2 and Dunleavy's Pub. Over the years I have attended both, but most of the time I have favored Folly Beach's Bill Murray Look-a-Like Polar Bear Plunge.

I had initially planned on going to Folly Beach this year. However, I inadvertently missed the exit for Folly on I26 and ended up on the Ravenel Bridge, where I decided not to turn around but to keep on going to Sullivan's Island, and I was glad I did. It was one of the largest crowds to attend Dunleavy's Polar Bear Plunge that I have seen.

Lowcountry residents came to have a good time, and they certainly did. Many participated in the traditional practice of wearing a costume, and there was an assortment of creative ones ranging from the unusually imaginative to the outrageously funny.

I hope you enjoy the pictures as much as I enjoyed taking them. It was a beautiful day on Charleston's historic Sullivan's Island, once the home of Edgar Allan Poe when he served in the military at Fort Moultrie and wrote his short story The Gold Bug. Thank you to Dunleavy's Pub for hosting their 30th charity event for the Special Olympics. Here's to everyone having a great 2025.

An Unforgettable Walk on the Beach of Sullivan's Island

Possibly, you have heard this story. The year was 2005. Its place of happening was fittingly Sullivan's Island. The teller is a young lady who was vacationing with her family. One morning she was strolling the beach picking up seashells. While examining one particular shell, she noticed a fully clothed gentleman standing and watching the ocean waves break on the shore.

When she looked up again from her seashell, she noticed the oddly dressed man had moved closer. She looked back down at the seashell to avoid an awkward encounter, but that's when the man spoke to her and asked if she wanted to know more about the shell she was holding. Despite feeling unnerved, she timidly looked up. He had long dark hair and very dark eyes. The man continued speaking. His soft-spoken voice put her at ease. Her apprehension faded away into a disarming and peaceful presence. He explained the seashell in great length, from its pink color and smooth interior to rough exterior, and she was impressed by the vast knowledge the gentleman possessed.

She bent down to pick up another shell and inquire about it, but the gentleman had vanished. The only logical explanation for his sudden disappearance was he had ventured back over the dunes. She picked up her newly collected treasures and headed back down the beach to her vacation home.

Later that evening, her and her family were out to eat at a local restaurant when a painting on the wall over its fireplace caught her attention. The dark image of a man looked eerily familiar, and so she walked over to get a closer look. Without a doubt, it was the man she spoke to earlier on the beach. She immediately flagged down a server and asked her if she knew the name of the man in the artwork. The server looked at her, puzzled, and said, "Oh yes dear, that's Edgar Allan Poe." At least, that is the way the story is told. Questionably, it is difficult to imagine someone would not recognize one of the most prominent faces in literature, but I acquiesce to the thought it could be possible.

The name of the local restaurant in the story is appropriately Poe's Tavern. On any given day throughout the tourist season, it is packed from opening to closing. It seems everyone wants to get a taste of it.

One writer described Poe's Tavern this way, "Eclectically decorated with different quotes from Poe’s work and several portraits of Poe by various artists, it is a quirky stop for passersby to grab a bite to eat, meet some locals, and experience a little history—even if it is beefed up a bit." Ironically, the writer's usage of the term "beefed up", though unintentional, is fitting in more ways than one. It is well known for its sumptuous burgers.

Most everything on the menu has an Edgar Allan Poe theme, from his name to the titles of his acclaimed works. I chose the Beef Gold Bug the day of my visit. The Gold-Bug was a famous story he wrote that takes place on Sullivan's Island. The burger was tasty and done to my preference. However, the highlight of my meal was the Dill Pickle Soup, of which I will describe with one word, WOW.

There are more than several portraits of Edgar. The walls are lined with everything Poe, but the eye catcher is the portrait above the fireplace. If you dare, walk up to it and look into his darkened eyes. However, I warn you, do not stare to long, you just might get sucked into his twisted, haunted world of macabre.

2210 Middle St., Sullivan s Island, SC

Poe submitted his short story called The Gold-Bug in 1843 as an entry to a writing contest sponsored by a Philadelphia newspaper called The Dollar. His story won the grand prize of $100 and was published in three installments. The writing was the most popular and widely read of Poe's works.

The Best of Edgar Allan Poe--Piccolo Spoleto's Spellbinding "Cognac and Roses" at Threshold Repertory Theatre

You could see it in his eyes. You could see it reflected in his demeanor's shadow. Dark was the medium of his world, the source of his intellectual power. His words were a palette of shades of black. The chill of dusk was the beginning of his day, and the warmth of dawn was its end. Thus was the story and life of Edgar Allan Poe, and what a poem he brushed, what a picture he versed.

Edgar Allan Poe left his imprint on Charleston, particularly the sands of Sullivan's Island, where he served in the military for 13 months at Fort Moultrie. The Gold Bug, his most famous story written 15 years after leaving the Lowcountry, takes place on the island.

It is believed his ghost walks the beach of Sullivan's Island, as recounted in a 2005 encounter with a 26-year-old woman on a family vacation. While picking up shells, she noticed a gentleman, standing fully clothed, watching the ocean waves break on the shore. She found his appearance to be odd. He wasn't dressed for a day at the beach, and his long dark hair and very dark eyes made him stand out in her mind as a unique presence. He approached and spoke to her about the shell she was holding in her hand. Bending down to pick up another to inquire about it, the gentleman vanished. While at Poe's Tavern that evening, she identified the mysterious man by the portrait on the restaurant's wall.

The Baltimore Sun's Laura Lippmann wrote an article in 2000 about an individual who would become known as the "Poe Toaster." From around 1949 until 2009, this somebody—or somebodies—toasted the famous author, who was born a hundred years earlier in 1849. They usually came sometime between midnight and 6 a.m. Even though a small group of onlookers watched his ritual, no one ever tried to unmask the visitor. The traditional uniform of the "Poe Toaster" was an all-black outfit with a white scarf and big hat. This somebody would leave three red roses and a bottle of cognac on his grave.

The story of the "Poe Toaster" is the basis for Threshold Repertory Theatre's presentation of Cognac and Roses: A Toast to Edgar Allan Poe. A dark and dreary night of dramatic retellings of Poe's most famous works of literature will be presented, including The Raven and The Tell-Tale Heart. Expect performances so dark and terrifying they will have your heart beating so hard you'll be sure it was buried under the floorboards. The cast includes Paul O'Brien, Ernie Eliason, Andrea Catangay, Tara D Holwegner, and Jonathan Quarles, all orchestrated by veteran director Chrissy Eliason.

Paul O'Brien and The Raven

Paul O'Brien set a high bar for the evening with a dramatic opening tribute to the "Poe Toaster" and followed it with an emotionally superb rendering of the Raven. Without missing a beat, the rest of the cast delivered absorbing, passionate renderings with the metaphorical power to arouse Poe from his grave to bestow his approval with a standing ovation.

Tara D. Holwegner and The Lake

Andrea Catangay and Dream Within a Dream

Ernie Eliason and The Black Cat

Jonathan Quarles and The Tell Tale Heart

If you love Edgar Allan Poe, this is a must see, spellbinding through and through. Remaining shows are June 10 at 7:30 pm and 9:30 pm, with a final performance June 11 at 3:00 pm--purchase tickets.

You can see Poe today, though neither in the flesh or the spirit. Go to Poe's restaurant on Sullivan's Island, stand before his mesmerizing portrait painted on one of its walls, and if you dare, look him in the eyes. Take care you do not get sucked into one of his nightmares.

An Early 1900s Mount Pleasant Horticultural Attraction--Pierates Cruze and an Epic Story

Interwoven into the early history of Mount Pleasant is a story similar to Shakespeare's epic tragedy, Romeo and Juliet. The interchangeable components include two star-crossed young lovers and an age-old feud between two powerful families that erupts into bloodshed.

The story takes place in Charleston's early-1700s. It is about the son and daughter of two prominent landowners who owned large tracts of land across the Cooper River beyond Hog Island in the area known as North Point. Unknown to their feuding parents, they fell in love and for months met secretly in an oak grove along the shores of Charleston's harbor. When their parents discovered they had secretly married, the couple fled and joined a band of pirates on Sullivan's Island. Apparently they didn't read the book Never Trust a Pirate.

The pirate captain became enamored with the young woman and hatched a diabolical plan. He instructed the crew to kill her husband. Learning of her lover's fate, she fled to their secret grove. Determined to have her, the captain followed. Overcome by hopelessness, she buried a knife into her own chest. As she lay dying, her husband, having averted the malicious plot, arrived. Confrontation was forthcoming. Losing a duel with the pirate, he expired in his wife's arms. The grieving fathers of the young couple erected a stone marker as a memorial.

The story obviously mentions no names. However, after examining Mount Pleasant's history and matching various components of the story to specific names and places, I propose the following conclusion. George Haddrell and William Hort fit the bill of the feuding landowners and parents of the two doomed lovers of this tragic tale.

George Haddrell was a prominent name in Mount Pleasant's early history. He owned 500 acres. It included most of the area beginning at Shem Creek and bordered today's Highway 703 to Center Street.

William Hort was an early settler from Barbados and owned land along the harbor waterfront beginning near Alhambra Hall and extended to Cove Inlet. In 1775, he wrote in his diary that his daughter, Elizabeth Haddrell Hort, was born in the house of Shem Creek tavern owner Jonathan Scott. Ironically, George Haddrell owned the house. Elizabeth interestingly was identified with both names by her father, Haddrell and Hort. As stated in the story, the couple would secretly rendevous at an oak grove. It just so happens a stand of oak tree's on the land owned by Hort became known as Hort's Grove. A stone marker called Hort's Pillar by the locals once stood near today's Pierates Cruze, the memorial erected by the parents.

The pirate captain could possibly have been Charles Vane or Calico Jack Rackham, but can not be said with any certainty, just a hunch. Their Charleston connections make them a likely consideration and both had a reputation that could match the individual in the story. In August of 1718, Vane raided Charleston and took eight ships. William Rhett pursued him but never caught him. Calico Jack was known for his affair with Charleston's pirate native, Anne Bonny.

Deep in Mount Pleasant's Old Village just southeast of Alhambra Hall on the land once owned by William Hort is the residential borough of Pierates Cruze. The name Pierates is obviously a play on the word pirates and Cruze for the word cruise. In the late 1920s, this five-acre parcel was home to Massachusetts transplants Dana and Laird Osgood. A small moat with an imitation drawbridge encircled the house. The property had something of a pirate's den feel.

The Osgoods erected a very substantial concrete seawall along the entire length of the property that withstood numerous storms and several hurricanes. In the 1930s, the owners transformed the grounds into seven spectacular gardens. They were named: The Sea Garden, Wind'll Blow, Little Wheel, Twyfy's Garden, Eight Bells, Wiggins Walk, and Amalfi. There was an abundant variety of flowers, shrubs, and trees, including thousands of prize-winning camellias and azaleas.

The Osgoods opened Pierates Cruze to the public on February 20, 1943. A popular tourist attraction in the 1940s and 1950s, entrance fees were $2 from December to May and $1 the rest of the year. Ads for the attraction included a photo of the Amalfi garden. Plants with dark green, stiff, dagger-like leaves projecting from thick, trunk-like stems called Spanish bayonet lined a walkway along the harbor that ended in a Spanish mission-style bell wall. "See the Spires of Charleston against the sunset across the wine-dark sea," the ads raved. A brochure stated: "More than one hundred varieties of camellias bloom luxuriantly here; as do flowering shrubs, wisteria, azaleas, roses, tulips, pansies and violets." In 1947, the Massachusetts Horticultural Society awarded Mrs. Osgood the prestigious "Gold Medal" for the development of new varieties of hybrid camellias.

The gardens were closed in 1959. The land was sold and subdivided with each lot priced at $10,000. There are homes of varying styles on the property now. Some of the old oak trees still overshadow the quiet enclave, but the original house and moat are gone. No trace of the seven gardens survived the reckoning of residential expansion except for Amalfi's original garden columns, which remain on the seawall and are reminiscent of the Italian mission structure that stood there. The belled wall was no match for Hurricane Hugo in 1989. It was completely destroyed. However, the property owners reconstructed the wall from the original bricks and replaced the bells with ship bells in a tribute to Pierates Cruze's wild history.

The Osgoods celebrated Charleston's pirate past and named their garden estate in recognition of it with a twist. Perhaps, they knew of the tragic love story that haunts Mount Pleasant's moss-covered trees along with the secret grove and the pillar. Pierates Cruze has faded into the sunset of history like the infamous pirates that prowled Charleston's surrounding waters. However, hints of its existence remain to mystify curious seekers of what was before. If you would like to learn more about the Old Village of North Point bounded by Shem Creek, Simmons Street, Cove Inlet, and the Harbor, Mount Pleasant offers a tour that explores several of the historical sites located within its original settlements. The pirate story is courtesy legends and lore.