May 1496 AD, 13 degrees north latitude, two thousand li southeast of the great island of Puerto Rico, south of the Lesser Antilles, Barbados Island.
The setting sun hung low, and the Atlantic Ocean shimmered with a copper-red glow, as if hinting at some unknown tomorrow. Four medium-sized Castilian Caravels lay quietly anchored in a bay on the west coast of Barbados. Their tall masts and lateen triangular sails were like birds flown in from some foreign land, their elongated silhouettes like wings, swaying slowly where sea met sky.
Looking closer, the lower hulls of these great sailing ships were covered with faint impact scars and mottled dark-red bloodstains, recording the killing that had taken place not long before. After the sea wind and the long voyage, these ships rested here in silence, like white ghosts from the distant Old World, watching the tropical islands of the New World.
"Haaha! The Lord protects us! This little island in the deep sea can truly be taken in at a glance, clear from front to back! Huh! There are actually so many wild banyan trees here? Then let us call it 'Banyan Tree Island,' Barbados!"
Expedition Commander Columbus stood at the bow, gazing out at "Banyan Tree Island, Barbados," this beautiful little tropical island.
The last light of sunset fell across the coral beach like red gauze. The seawater was clear to the bottom, like an enormous pane of blue glass, refracting the rosy shadows of cirrus clouds at the horizon. Palm groves and banyan groves swayed gently together in the sea breeze. Their dappled shadows spread across the white sand, and now and then a small brown lizard darted past the roots, flashing by like a falling star.
Without a doubt, this was a quiet and beautiful small tropical island! The