Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for a racing mind
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 cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. 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. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
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.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your chest can be still now.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
They will find their own way out. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Slower. Let the dark be ordinary. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Almost nothing to do now. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.
The end. Sleep well.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, when you want something simple — for waking too early, An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for jet lag or The night train, after a difficult conversation — for winding down.