Some years ago, as a fresh washashore, I made the mistake of honking my car horn.
It was at the blinker, coming from Vineyard Haven on an off-season day. There were but two cars: mine, and that of the woman in front who had been unaccountably stopped, for maybe a minute, maybe less. I didn’t lean aggressively on the horn, just a little beep, to say “I’m here.”