Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — 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 water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. 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 cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your palms open if they were closed.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Leave it there.
Slower now. The words can start to blur now. Let your breathing do the rest.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Stay.
Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try A bus at night, if you are fitting this around other people — for jet lag, A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you want to be left alone — for an overtired night or A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you are cold and want to be warm — for jet lag.