Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you want something simple — for a racing mind
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. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Your chest can be still now.
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.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
You can stop listening properly. Nothing here needs following closely.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Stay. Stay with the weight of your body.
Just the weight. Slower now. Let the quiet be boring.
Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are new to this — for the hours after a late shift, A lake before dawn, when you only have a few minutes — for a racing mind or Sleep story: a field under snow, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a restless night.