There’s a peculiar irony in coastal living.

You move to a beach town — the kind of place where the air smells like salt, the gulls scream like toddlers on a sugar rush, and the fog rolls in like a drunken uncle who overstays his welcome — and then you act surprised when … gasp … it sounds like the coast.

Yes, dear readers, I’m talking about the latest scandal that rattled the retirement recliners of Ocean Shores: the Westport fog horn. That ancient sentinel of maritime safety, blasting through the mist like Poseidon’s kazoo, has triggered another round of pearl-clutching from those who apparently thought beachfront property came with noise-canceling headphones.

Let me get this straight: You moved to a coastal community — a place literally defined by boats, waves and fog — only to be irritated by coastal sounds? That’s like moving next to a cow pasture and writing letters to the editor about the “nerve” of those bovine creatures mooing. Or buying a home under the Sea-Tac flight path and wondering why aluminum birds keep buzzing your cocktail hour.

But here in Ocean Shores, it’s not just the horn. The fog horn becomes a symbol, a rallying cry of entitlement. It’s the same entitlement that fuels the endless parade of “community heroes” who form committees, take minutes, and remind the rest of us just how very important they are because they once supervised the church rummage sale or sat on the HOA board of directors back in 1987.

These folks mistake their irritation for civic importance. A fog horn isn’t just a sound — no, no. To them, it’s a personal attack. Proof the world refuses to bend to their comfort. Proof that Westport exists only to ruin their evening gin and tonic.

And so, they rise up like gladiators of grievance, demanding action, as if the city council has the power to call up Neptune himself and tell him to pipe down.

Here’s the truth they don’t want to hear: Nobody cares.

The fog horn doesn’t care, the boats sure don’t care, and most of the town doesn’t care either. Because we know what we signed up for — a coastal life, in all its salty, honking, seagull-squawking glory.

Maybe — just maybe — the real issue isn’t the horn at all. Maybe it’s the creeping realization that their “golden years” are less golden and more tarnished brass. That no matter how many committees they form or horns they complain about, they’re not suddenly going to be the protagonist in this seaside story. The fog will keep rolling, the horn will keep honking, and their legacy will remain … a stack of angry letters in City Hall’s recycling bin.

So here’s my advice, fellow coast dwellers: Sit down. Shut up. Pour yourself a drink, grab a blanket, and enjoy the sounds of the coast — the same sounds that existed long before you got here, and will outlast all of us. Because nothing screams “miserable life” louder than yelling at a fog horn.

And nothing is funnier than thinking you matter more than the tide.

CJ Ripley is a self-described Ocean Shores survivor.