Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), before something difficult — for a night when you do not want to think
A small harbour, a rope that creaks, and a boat that moves about a metre in the night.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Your chest can be still now. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
You do not have to count them. Let it all get further away.
Let your breathing do the rest. Sleep. Nothing here needs following closely.
Let them. Just the dark. They will find their own way out.
It works best in the hour before something difficult.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you feel restless rather than tired — for a restless night, A kitchen late at night, when you need something unremarkable — for jet lag or Sleep story: a field under snow, when you have just finished work — for an overtired night.