A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are too tired to try hard — for winding down

The story, in full

The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.

The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. 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.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.

Feel your cheeks let go. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

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.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.

Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Stay with the weight of your body. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

Just the breath. Let it all get further away. Slower.

Let the room get slightly further away. Almost nothing to do now. You do not have to count them.

Too tired to try hard is exactly the right amount of tired for this.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.