A boat at anchor, when you need something

The story, in full

There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.

The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

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.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Slower now. Let the room get slightly further away.

They will find their own way out. Let your breathing do the rest. Almost nothing to do now.

Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.