Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for a night when you do not want to think
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 harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. 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.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing 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 tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
If you're sleepy, sit up a little. Or let the sleepiness be there. Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to.
Feel your wrists loosen. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
You can stop listening properly. Let them. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the room get slightly further away. The words can start to blur now.
It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when the weather has kept you inside — for an overtired night, An attic room, when you have been putting it off — for winding down or Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when the house is busy — for waking too early.