Sleep story · water, slow
Sleep story: a boat at anchor, when you need to stop thinking about work — for the hours after a late shift
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
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your chest can be still now.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
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 space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel your cheeks let go.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
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.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your hands be completely still.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Sleep. Slower.
Almost nothing to do now. Stay with the weight of your body. You can stop listening properly.
You do not have to count them. Let the room get slightly further away. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Work thoughts are allowed to be there. They just do not get to drive.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: the night train, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for winding down, Sleep story: the night train, when you are somewhere noisy — for the hours after a late shift or A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — for winding down.