A boat at anchor, when you want to be left alone — for waking too early

Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. 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. 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.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Your ankles can go loose now.

Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.

Feel your wrists loosen. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

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.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind? If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your hands be completely still.

Slower now. Let your breathing do the rest.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. They will find their own way out. Stay.

Let them. Stay with the weight of your body. Nothing here needs following closely.

Nothing here asks anything of you socially.

The end. Sleep well.