Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, when you want to be left alone — for jet lag
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
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Your chest can be still now. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
They will find their own way out. Let the room get slightly further away.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let your breathing do the rest.
Let the quiet be boring. Let them. Almost nothing to do now.
Nothing here asks anything of you socially.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have just finished work — for an overtired night, A lake before dawn, when you have been putting it off — for a restless night or A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, after eating too much — for winding down.