Sleep story · water, slow

A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for the hours after a late shift

A small harbour, a rope that creaks, and a boat that moves about a metre in the night.

Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.

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 boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.

The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.

Feel your cheeks let go. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

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 everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your ankles can go loose now.

Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.

Let the mattress take all of it. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Let the quiet be boring. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Almost nothing to do now.

You do not have to count them. Stay with the weight of your body. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.

Let everything get quiet, including this.