Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for a restless night
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 hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. 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. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your hands be completely still.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your wrists loosen.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your palms open if they were closed.
The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your ankles can go loose now.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
You can stop listening properly. Let the next part go past without you.
Let the room get slightly further away. Just the weight. Let it all get further away.
You do not have to count them. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the dark be ordinary.
Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.
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 A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you have tried everything else — for an overtired night, A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when nothing else has worked today — for the hours after a late shift or A kitchen late at night, when you need something unremarkable — for winding down.