Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, when you want to be left alone — 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
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. 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.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let the dark be ordinary. You do not have to count them.
Sleep. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Slower now.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the next part go past without you. Let the quiet be boring.
Nothing here asks anything of you socially.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try A boat at anchor, when you have been meaning to start — for a racing mind, A hotel room somewhere, when you are on your own — for a restless night or Sleep story: a garden in the rain, when the day has been loud — for waking too early.