A boat at anchor (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for a racing mind

The story, in full

The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.

Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your chest can be still now.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your ankles can go loose now.

The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.

Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Just the breath.

Almost nothing to do now. Let the room get slightly further away. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Just the dark. The words can start to blur now.

Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.