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

The story, in full

Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. 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 rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.

Let your hands be completely still. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel your cheeks let go.

The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Stay. Let the quiet be boring.

They will find their own way out. Softer. Just the breath.

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.