I dropped two Danforths forward and watched them sink clear to the bottom. They settled in at 20 degrees off each side of the bow. Wind moaned in the rigging, and water gurgled past the hull, but Persistence was gently gliding back and forth. The sun turned red as it set, and I watched it move across the portlight, then back again as we swung to the anchors. To me, the sun seemed like a beacon, and my mind turned to F. Scott Fitzgerald, who grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, and I recalled the way Jay Gatsby, also a sailor on Lake Superior, looked longingly at a beacon in The Great Gatsby.