Sleep story · water, slow
Sleep story: a boat at anchor, before something difficult — for a racing mind
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
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your hands be completely still.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Stay with the weight of your body. Let the quiet be boring. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
They will find their own way out. Let it all get further away. Just the weight.
It works best in the hour before something difficult.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 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 an overtired night, A field under snow, when you have tried everything else — for jet lag or The night train (a sleep story), if you are tired of apps — for winding down.