Ocean Shores never fails to deliver a civic soap opera, and the latest episode features an unlikely star: Ocean Pours’ pandemic tent.
Forget masks and sanitizer stations. The big question now is: does the tent stay, or does it meet its destiny at the hands of the City Council and a backhoe?
This isn’t just a tent. It’s a legend. A canvas cathedral of craft beer. A tarp of destiny. A pop-up shrine to hops that somehow survived storms, wind, and the occasional drunken deer wandering in for karaoke night.
Since 2020, it’s been our unofficial convention center — beer fest in the front, drainage ditch in the back. But with the COVID emergency declaration possibly ending, city code says the “temporary” structure must finally disappear.
Which leaves us with two camps: Team Rules Are Rules. These are the hall monitors of Ocean Shores. They clutch their building codes tighter than a Costco coupon book. They dream about setbacks. They file complaints about fence heights. They’ll tell you, “If I needed a permit for my doghouse, Ocean Pours better file one too.” Their spirit animals are binders.
Team Save the Tent On the other side are the tent romantics. To them, this isn’t fabric over poles — it’s a vibe. A lifestyle. The one place you can sip a hazy IPA in a plastic chair and pretend you’re at Coachella, minus the glow sticks, plus more PBR trucker hats. They don’t care about codes. They care about community… and maybe nachos.
The Brewer’s Dilemma Ocean Pours has two options: 1. Lose the tent. Say goodbye to extra seating, revenue, and fantasy football leagues trying to fit 10 guys into the corner booth. 2. GoFundMe it. Launch the greatest fundraiser in Grays Harbor history. Slogan: Pour One Out for the Tent: Building Walls Since the City Said We Can’t.
Picture tote bags. Picture raffle tickets. Grand prize? Naming rights for the bathroom.
The Sensitivity Circus City Hall insists it’s a “sensitive issue.” Translation: the town is screaming at each other on Facebook at 2 a.m. Deer roll their eyes, curl up in yards, and whisper, “Humans are exhausting.”
One side chants “COMPLIANCE!” while the other screams “LET THEM DRINK!” A third just wants to know: is the tent heated in winter?
Council, Assemble! Enter our decision makers, the Ocean Shores City Council, a group of people who love turning molehills into Mount Rainier.
The meeting will go like this:
Someone solemnly declares, “This sets a precedent.”
Someone else warns about “public safety.”
One brave soul reads the building code aloud like a bedtime story no child ever asked for.
Half the council sneaks out afterward to drink under the tent anyway.
The Big Picture — this is Ocean Shores. We’ve fought about sand berms, deer rights, traffic, fireworks, and roundabouts that baffle tourists like crop circles. A fight over a beer tent? That’s practically our civic duty.
Honestly, I’m surprised we haven’t formed militias with pitchforks labeled “TENT” and “NO TENT.” (Give it time.) The Real Entertainment — whether the tent lives or dies, the true joy is watching us argue about it with the intensity of Supreme Court justices.
The tent may be temporary, but the drama is eternal. So grab a pint, settle into your plastic chair, and enjoy the greatest show in town: Ocean Shores, where we turn tarps into history and history into Facebook flame wars.
Until next time, dear readers — keep those geoducks and clams clean, and forever be salty.
CJ Ripley is a citizen, spectator and reluctant tent enthusiast.
