Sleep story · water, slow
Sleep story: a boat at anchor, when you need to stop thinking about work — for winding down
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 blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. 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 hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
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.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your ankles can go loose now.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Your chest can be still now. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Just the breath. Almost nothing to do now.
Slower now. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay.
Let the quiet be boring. You can stop listening properly. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
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 A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you are somewhere noisy — for an overtired night, A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you are doing this for the first time — for a restless night or A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been putting it off — for waking too early.