A boat at anchor, when you want to be left alone — for an overtired night

The story, in full

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.

The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.

Your chest can be still now. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

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 forehead go cool and smooth. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Let them. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

You can stop listening properly. Almost nothing to do now. Let it all get further away.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay.

Nothing here asks anything of you socially.

The end. Sleep well.

18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.