In Tampa Bay, there are plenty of kooky history stories to go around about the local buildings, cities and names. Plus tales of pirates — lots and lots of pirates.
Maybe you’ve heard some of these on a walking tour, from your neighbor or while scrolling Reddit. Here, we break down the truth behind these popular urban legends.
Myth 1: St. Petersburg’s name was decided by a coin toss
In 1888, a Russian nobleman named Peter Demens extended his Orange Belt Railway to Pinellas County. Demens wanted to name the city after his birthplace. But a rich man from Michigan, John Constantine Williams, owned land that would become part of St. Petersburg. He also wanted naming rights — and Williamsville was his preference.
Local legend says that the two settled the decision with a coin toss. Sometimes, the story has the men drawing straws. But a book by historian Raymond Arsenault says no such games occurred.
At the time, the area’s scant offerings included a combination post office and general store. Since E.R. and Ella Ward ran it, the area was referred to as Wardsville. In “St. Petersburg and the Florida Dream, 1888-1950,” Arsenault writes that one of Demens’ partners created a petition to ensure that St. Petersburg won. Swedish immigrant Joseph Henschen convinced “four or five others to sign it, and we sent it to Washington where it was approved by the post office department.”
Sunny waterfront park Demens Landing also nods to the Russian co-founder’s legacy (here’s how to pronounce that name, and others). Williams, meanwhile, found other ways to leave his mark on the city. The Detroit Hotel, now condos next to music venue Jannus Live, was named after his hometown. Williams Park is built on a city block that he donated, wrote Will Michaels in “The Making of St. Petersburg.”
Myth 2: Pirates once buried loot on Treasure Island.
A century ago, some folks unearthed treasure from the powder white sand of this Pinellas County beach community. But did a surly crew of swashbucklers stow that particular bounty? Not quite.
According to the city of Treasure Island’s website, a man named Bill McAdoo concocted a plan to stir interest in some St. Pete Beach land he owned over 100 years ago. McAdoo buried fake treasure with a buddy named Ed Brantley one night in 1918. Patrons of the nearby Coney Island Hotel uncovered it the next day.
“Two guests began spreading the word about their discovery and people began calling the area around the hotel ‘out at that Treasure Island,’” the website states.
McAdoo’s “treasure” — lead weights in a trunk — was paraded in a drawn wagon down Main Street and displayed in a downtown bank building, said Nevin Sitler, director of education and outreach at the St. Petersburg Museum of History.
“The modern day pirate’s plan backfired,” he wrote in an article titled “Tall Tales and Traffic.” “An incorrect account soon spread that the chest had been unearthed on the island adjacent to McAdoo’s St. Petersburg Beach, stripping the island of a tall tale and permanently labeling the key to the north ‘Treasure Island.’”
By the way — historians say Gasparilla’s namesake marauder, José Gaspar, is the stuff of fiction. That has not stopped one St. Pete jeweler from claiming to have Gaspar’s treasure.
“I’ve got a masters degree on the subject. I’ve written four books,” Sitler said. “… and I have never seen any documentation about piracy in the city.”
You can still channel your own Captain Jack Sparrow at nearby John’s Pass, where Sunshine Scenic Tours offers an hour and a half pirate ship cruise. The pass, which separates Madeira Beach from Treasure Island, was formed by a hurricane in 1848. The area’s name comes from John Levique, who discovered the pass shortly after the storm.
While local tour guides and even the city of Madeira Beach call Levique a pirate, Times archives say he was actually a sea turtle hunter.
“The John of John’s Pass was your basic settler in early Florida,” historian Rodney Kite-Powell told Fox 13 News in 2017.
Myth 3: The bathroom by the St. Pete Pier resembles a nearby church because the architect wanted revenge.
“According to lore, the restroom — known as Little Mary’s — was designed to look like a local church, St. Mary’s, when the architect for both was not paid promptly for his church labors,” read a story in the 1991 St. Petersburg Times. “Architect Henry Taylor, as the story goes, wanted to make a pointed and lasting statement about his feelings to the congregation for failing to pay him satisfactorily for the designs of St. Mary Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church.”
Taylor was also behind other iconic structures around St. Petersburg, including the Vinoy Park Hotel (now simply The Vinoy Hotel) and the Jungle Country Club Hotel (now Admiral Farragut Academy).
In August 1975, the St. Petersburg Times ran a photo caption referencing the myth alongside a photo of Little Mary’s. But a few days later, the paper issued a correction.
“Mrs. Gladys Taylor, the architect’s widow, also informed The Times that her husband did not provide the city with a free design for the public comfort station at Second Avenue N. and Bayshore Drive but was paid for his work,” it read.
By the early 1990s, the city council began contemplating a historic designation for the Little Mary’s, also known as Comfort Station No. 1.
“Commission documents suggest the resemblance between the two structures may be due more to Taylor’s love of the Romanesque Revival style than his not getting his due from St. Mary’s congregation,” the Times wrote.
Once again, the paper turned to Gladys Taylor.
“The church kept its commitments to pay,” she said. “Everyone was having money troubles then, and it took some time. Banks were closed… but I don’t think there was any question or argument about Henry’s getting paid for his work.”
Sitler pointed out the timeline of the buildings pokes a hole through the story.
“Comfort Station No. 1 was build nearly two years before St. Mary’s church,” he said.
Little Mary’s has long drawn admirers. The bathroom’s structure got a special shoutout in a 1929 edition of “The American City” magazine.
“‘The St. Petersburg comfort station’ is designed in the style known as Lombardy Romanesque, which is one of the most interesting in Italian architecture,” the magazine declared.
As Arsenault told the Times in 1991: “It has to be one of the best public restrooms in the United States.”
Don’t see your favorite local myth on the list? Send us an email with the local legend you’ve been wondering about at [email protected]. We may look into it for a future article.
Information from the Times archive was used in this story.
Source Agencies
