A SHOT FROM THE PAST — (Left) Sean P. Rojas admiring a contestant of the “Best Body on the Beach” competition in Rehoboth Beach in July of 1988. (Photo by Gregg Kirk)

By GREGG KIRK
(June 1990, Big Shout Magazine)

A lot can happen in a month.

About 30 days ago, the staff at Big Shout was toiling over preparations for the May issue and going over figures with an accountant, when in strolled a scruffy-looking guy with ridiculously crooked Ray Bans, a slight beer belly, and a handful of striking photos.

All activity stopped as we all gathered around to look at the shots and chat with the photographer. He exchanged a few words with the editors, bragged that it had only taken him 25 minutes to make the trip from Dover to Wilmington (a trip that would have taken a more sensible person at least 45 minutes to accomplish), asked for a glass of water, and shambled out to a beaten-up car provided by the Delaware State News, and drove to another photo assignment in Philly.

It was the last time anyone at Big Shout saw Sean Rojas.

It would be absurd for me to continue the rest of this article, which was intended to be some kind of obituary, in an objective or semi-detached manner. Sean Rojas was a close friend of mine, and he was one of the original planners of Big Shout Magazine. He was well-liked and very well-known in the journalistic community, and I’m sure there are very few journalists (or bartenders, for that matter) from Ocean City, MD to Wilmington, DE who hadn’t seen him at work or at least seen his work.

The first time I met Sean was in May of 1987, almost exactly three years ago. As I walked in the office for a job interview at the Delaware Coast Press/Beachcomber in Rehoboth Beach, I saw this guy in a straw cowboy hat standing by a desk completely overrun by old photos and paperwork. My initial impression was that Sean was some hayseed local who got the job only because his dad knew the editor or because he had taken some impressive photos of chicken houses. I was to find out later that Sean only wore his hat, he said, on days when he cleaned off his desk. Suffice it to say that six months later, when I left my employ at the Beachcomber, it was the only time I ever saw that hat.

Sean was not known for his neatness, promptness, or ability to inspire seriousness in anyone about anything other than photography or motorcycles. He had more of a predilection for strong drink, fast women, faster vehicles, and a fine “piece of glass” (camera lens).

In the three years I knew him, our paths crossed so many times they eventually became the same one. He taught me almost everything I know about photography, which plays an important monthly role in the look and feel of this magazine. I endured being his roommate for more than two months in a perfectly fine apartment in Rehoboth Beach, which Sean and a few other roommates effectively transformed into something resembling an indoor landfill site.

At times we were co-workers, other times we traded jobs, but in the end we both worked for the same conservative weekly newspaper company that threatened to fire us at different times because of the length of our hair. Ultimately, this caused us to quit and consider starting our own publication. After months of planning and preparation, Sean opted for a full-time job as a staff photographer at the Delaware State News in Dover, but he soon became an honorary contributing photographer for Big Shout, providing us with memorable shots of the Who, the East Coast Skinboarding Championship, and various local concert shots.

While Sean’s life was anything but stable, a thing that remained constant was his ability to approach every incident that occurred with no small amount of levity. And while he never had much money, (or “cabbage,” as he called it) he had a veritable wealth of friends.

About two years ago, he was moving into a new house, so he invited Wave editor Brian Hunt and his wife, and my girlfriend and me to have a housewarming party, complete with a lobster dinner. As we all arrived around the appropriate dinner hour, we couldn’t help but notice a large moving van in the middle of the gravel driveway. When we got out of our cars, Sean emerged from the house, beer in hand, and said with a wry grin, “Before we eat, I thought we might move this heavy furniture into the house!” In fact we had to because the dinner table where we were supposed to eat our lobster dinner was actually in the van!

My most enduring image of Sean stems from a weekend-long drinking binge that took place while he and I were roommates. The week before hadn’t been a particularly good one for both of us — we had both split with our respective significant others and were feeling pretty depressed. We had spent most of the day torturing ourselves with mescal and cheap beer when we decided to drive to Ocean City to get something to eat. We jumped into Sean’s 1972 Plymouth Sports Fury II convertible, and though it was mid-March and still a bit nippy, Sean felt it was important to ride with the top down. I accidentally broke the back glass in the car while pulling the tattered rag top down, but Sean didn’t bat an eye. Instead, he drove at breakneck speed to our destination, yelling and throwing beer cans in the air the whole way.

While we ate our meal, I noticed to my alarm that Sean was hiccupping from too much drink. This worried me because his ability to consume great quantities of alcohol was legendary, in fact, he prided himself on it. He had obviously reached his limit, so I told him to give me the keys to his car and to let me drive.

He didn’t put up a fight, and we both walked into the now-frigid air and jumped in the behemoth. As I turned on the ignition, the enormous engine screamed to life with a frightening din, which was made worse by the fact that the tailpipe had fallen off directly under the passenger seat.

We rode home that night screaming at each other like two wild animals. As we approached the Indian River Inlet bridge on the Coastal Highway, Sean slipped into a kind of alcoholic stupor. I’ll never forget the beauty of the full moon glinting off the water on either side of the bridge that night, while Sean leaned over and screamed in my face, “Faster! Faster!” as the speedometer pegged 135 m.p.h.

It’s because of memories like this that it was so difficult for many of us who were Sean’s friends to accept the fact that on May 3, 1990 he died as a passenger in the backseat of a Volkswagen Jetta. It certainly was an inappropriate way for him to go.

He was the only person I knew who had been pulled over by a helicopter for speeding. He literally wallpapered his bathroom with the unpaid speeding tickets he had gotten, and the only way he avoided getting into serious trouble was that he collected driver’s licenses like some people collect credit cards.

Perhaps all of this craziness can be attributed to the fact that he was very fond of Hunter S. Thompson, and in a way, he pattered his life around the author’s tendency to live on the very edge. If ever there were a gonzo photographer, Sean was the archetype.

Whatever the case, Sean squeezed everything there is out of life, and he made an incredible amount of friends while he was here. I was impressed by this fact when I attended a memorial service in his honor in Rehoboth Beach last month. In a relatively short amount of time, he had amassed an array of friends that literally spanned the Mid-Atantic coastal region.

At this point I had intended to write some sort of pithy statement that would adequately sum up Sean’s life and to help others get over the loss. It’s not going to happen. It’s been very difficulty for me to write this, and I know I am not the only one who was utterly devastated when I first heard the news.

All I know is this: It’s going to be a long time before the smell of darkroom chemicals and stale beer, the sight of a rider hunched over a race bike, or the sound of an old car with no muffler don’t make me think of Sean Rojas. I hope we never forget him.