Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, when you have tried everything else — 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.
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 rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. 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. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Feel your cheeks let go. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
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 everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let the dark be ordinary. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
You can stop listening properly. Just the weight. Just the breath.
The words can start to blur now. Let the room get slightly further away. Let your breathing do the rest.
This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try An attic room, when you have been putting it off — for winding down, Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have been meaning to start — for jet lag or A lake before dawn, when the weather has kept you inside — for winding down.