Long before it sat under kitchen sinks and beside lawnmowers, that blue-and-yellow can began as a classified answer to a quiet, corroding crisis. Norm Larsen and his small crew weren’t trying to make life easier for homeowners; they were trying to keep Cold War missiles from slowly dissolving in salty coastal air. Each failed formula meant another reminder that metal always loses to time—unless someone refuses to quit. On the fortieth attempt, the water finally lifted, sheeted away, and stayed gone. Rust, for once, hesitated.

The victory didn’t arrive with ad campaigns or billboards, but through stained hands and word of mouth. Technicians slipped cans into lunchboxes, then into garages. Neighbors borrowed a spray, then bought their own. Hinges loosened, engines turned, stuck windows yielded. The Rocket Chemical Company eventually surrendered its name to the formula that wouldn’t stay secret. Every can on a shelf is a small, quiet monument to the unglamorous grind of persistence.