Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you are short on time — 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 hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. 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.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Let your hands be completely still. Feel your cheeks let go.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Softer.
The words can start to blur now. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Stay.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. They will find their own way out. Let the room get slightly further away.
Pick this one when you are short on time.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try A caravan by the sea, if you are fitting this around other people — for winding down, A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for a night when you do not want to think or A lake before dawn (a sleep story), after a long day — for an overtired night.