A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you are short on time — for jet lag

The story, in full

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.

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. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your chest can be still now.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

You do not have to count them. Softer.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let them. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Sleep. Let the next part go past without you. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

Pick this one when you are short on time.

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

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