Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, when you have tried everything else — for jet lag
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 water slaps against the side in twos and threes. 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.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your wrists loosen.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
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.
Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. You can stop listening properly.
You do not have to count them. Almost nothing to do now. Just the dark.
Slower. Let the quiet be boring. Slower now.
This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try A library at closing time (a sleep story), if you have five quiet minutes — for winding down, A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have just finished work — for a night when you do not want to think or A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, if you have done this a hundred times — for jet lag.