Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are tired of apps — for a restless 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 bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. 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 boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Slower.
You do not have to count them. The words can start to blur now. Slower now.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let it all get further away. They will find their own way out.
No account, no streak, no notification asking how you feel.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a boat at anchor, after a difficult conversation — for a restless night, A library at closing time, when you have been on screens all day — for waking too early or Sleep story: a garden in the rain, when the day has been loud — for waking too early.