Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you want something simple — for an overtired 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 blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Your chest can be still now.
Let your hands be completely still. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the room get slightly further away.
They will find their own way out. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the dark be ordinary.
You do not have to count them. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. 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 A library at closing time, when nothing else has worked today — for a night when you do not want to think, A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you want to be left alone — for a racing mind or Sleep story: the night train, when the house is busy — for a racing mind.