By Donald Millus

Franklin Smalls Knows Murrells Inlet Fishing History

Still searching for the first flounder and trout of the spring, I anchored in he mouth of Weston Flats late last week. As early as February in some years I had taken both southern flounder and spotted sea trout here on MirrOlures and Cotee grubs. The rains of earlier in the week had not dirtied the water excessively, but many of the shellfish areas, public and commercial had been closed by the Department of Natural Resources. And so it was that I had the pleasure of meeting Franklin L. Smalls.

He pulled his little oyster boat up a respectable distance from where I was casting and began to drift live mud minnows for flounder. Smalls responded cheerfully to my greeting--all I have had to talk to some days were the seagulls and pelicans--and he confessed that he had not caught a fish this spring. Neither had most other anglers of the cold spring waters of Murrells Inlet.

Smalls was quite talkative, offering he information that his oyster harvesting had been shut down because of the heavy rains. He was anchored in the main channel and drifted his float and live bait past a crab trap while he deftly avoided hooking. As we chatted over the water and wind I appreciated his loud, clear voice, especially since I wear ear plugs with my noisy 2-stroke Johnson 25 outboard. Later, I learned from Jim Godfrey that Smalls' not so still voice has a reputation for carrying all across the Inlet on quiet, windless nights.

He has been fishing Murrells Inlet for 41 of his fifty years. He shyly admitted that his first flounder, at age nine, weighed in at sixteen pounds. He had forked or speared it while fishing with his father who taught him a lot about fishing. "In those days," Smalls added, "we didn't have batteries and generators." We used fires in frying pans to light the water. Later people brought in flambeaux from Louisiana" which I assumed were descendants of the torches used in the bayoux of that great fishing state.

"Back then a two pound flounder was considered little."

` Nowadays a stringer of two-pound flounder gives bragging rights for a week and a three-pounder is an event. As we both fished not even a one-pounder came aboard either of our boats. I did make a mistake, however. I mentioned that I did some clamming down toward the "Brigham Hole." Fighting words for Smalls, I found.

The real name of that hole, he insisted, is Cinda "like the girls' name." He pointed out that it had a name long before R.D. Brigham and his family had it named in their honor by fishermen envious of their success. Later that day Jim Godfrey told me that the "Brigham Hole" was called "The Hospital" by some old timey fishermen who took many spottail and trout with red fins there, as if the fish were recuperating from some ailment.

So what's in a name? A lot of history and pride, as anyone familiar with Horry County's recent naming of streets knows. Folks like to have their names on streets, buildings, etc.

After fishing with artificial lures for two hours I asked Smalls to sell me some mud minnows so I could fish the Belin Methodist Church fishing hole. (I'm sure it has another name, but I don't know it and I didn't ask Smalls because I had to work in the afternoon.)

"They didn't cost me anything; I can't sell them" he said as he gave me a gracious plenty. Alas, the mud minnows were no more effective than my lures. Smalls had not caught any by the time I left him, but he did opine that the jetties were keeping the flounder and trout out of the inlet.
A D.N.R. official said it was fishing pressure, but I think the silting up of the inlet is more of a factor.

As I was leaving, Smalls' wife called him on his cell phone. There's no place for a man to hide anymore.