Sleep story · water, slow
Sleep story: a boat at anchor, when you need to stop thinking about work — 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
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. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
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. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the mattress take all of it.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.
Let your hands be completely still. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The words can start to blur now. Let the quiet be boring.
You do not have to count them. Slower now. Slower.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Just the breath. Stay.
Work thoughts are allowed to be there. They just do not get to drive.
The end. Sleep well.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.