Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, when you have tried everything else — for a restless night
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 blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your wrists loosen.
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.
Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill. Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your cheeks let go.
Just the dark. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Softer. You can stop listening properly. Let the dark be ordinary.
Sleep. Almost nothing to do now. They will find their own way out.
This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.