Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — for waking too early
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 boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. 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.
Your chest can be still now. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Your ankles can go loose now. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself.
Feel your wrists loosen. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Sleep. Let it all get further away.
Just the dark. Slower now. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Let the room get slightly further away. Slower. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a hotel room somewhere, when you feel restless rather than tired — for a restless night, An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are waiting for something — for the hours after a late shift or Sleep story: a hotel room somewhere, when you feel restless rather than tired — for waking too early.