A boat at anchor, when you want something simple — for a night when you do not want to think

The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.

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. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your ankles can go loose now.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

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 your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your cheeks let go.

The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your wrists loosen.

If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Leave it there. Stay.

Let the room get slightly further away. Stay with the weight of your body. Nothing here needs following closely.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the quiet be boring. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.