Tonight, we're going to the beach, the most perfect beach, on the most beautiful summer day. And like all of our sleep stories, this one is built to do a few things at once. It gives your mind somewhere to go, somewhere much nicer than the same circular track it takes when you can't sleep.And underneath that, the story will do the real work, slowing you down, filling you with a kind of warm contentment that comes at the end of a very good day. And then eventually, sleep will stop feeling like something that you're chasing, and it will just quietly arrive. And this story is special because the idea came from two of you, from Becky, who suggested a while ago that I do something about looking for sea glass. And Becky, that is the perfect idea for a sleep story. Thank you. And the second person is Sylvia, who asked for a summer episode. Well, she asked for a very long summer episode, and I've done my best. This may not be quite as long as you were hoping for, Sylvia, but it's longer than usual. So, I hope it does the trick. And first, as always, I need to say the thing I always say. This episode uses relaxation techniques and light hypnotherapy, so please make sure that you are somewhere safe before listening. Ideally, your own comfortable bed, and not anywhere.You need to stay alert. And I'm just very quickly going to mention the Snoozeville Sleep Club. The Sleep Club exists so that I can keep the show ad-free.And if you would like more information on the Sleep Club, there's a message from me at the top of the list of episodes. It's called, A Message from Suzanne. I know, so creative. And if you don't want more information, then just keep listening. You'll still get every episode the same as you always have. That hasn't changed.And so now, let's get you settled. Do whatever you need to do to be comfortable. If you're the kind of person who likes a lot of pillows, arrange them exactly where they need to be.And if you're a one pillow person, that's okay. Just make sure it's the perfect pillow for you. Let your legs finally rest. Let your arms rest wherever they fall. Let yourself be still and comfortable and quiet. And together, let's breathe for a moment.Take a slow breath in, just full and easy. Hold it there for just a moment and then let it go, letting it run longer than the breath in. Nice.And then just relax and feel what that one longer deep breath did to your body. How the beat of your heart has slowed just slightly. Nothing prepares us for sleep quite as well as the breath.So let's do that again. Breathe in and then out. Make it a slow and long exhale.Beautiful. And now one final time. In and a long easy breath out. And now let your breathing go back to its normal rhythm. Just let it move on its own, a little slower than before. Let your body begin to settle.Feel the weight of it. Let your shoulders drop back and down. Let your hands become loose and open.Let your legs grow heavy. You don't have to do anything now. You don't have to stay awake for this. If you drift off before we even reach the water, that's fine. Let your eyes close. Let the bed hold you.And together, let's go to the beach. And here's what I'd like you to imagine. Imagine that you're staying with a friend for a few days this summer. And your friend lives in a small town on a sandy island just a short distance from the mainland. And the two of you have already had some great days together. But this morning, she had to go to work.She felt bad about it. But before she left, she pressed her car keys into your hand and told you not to waste the day. She'd already packed a cooler and put it by the door.And she showed you a spot on the map, a beach that she loves. She stacked her good umbrella and a folding chair and a pile of soft towels by the car. Go, she said.Have the perfect day. And here you are. You found the path almost by accident.Everyone else was back at the main beach, the one with the car park and the ice cream and the crowds. But there was a smaller sign, half hidden in the long grass. There's a boardwalk that takes you toward the water. It's just weathered gray boards raised up on posts over the dunes and under your feet. The wood is warm and a little rough on either side of you. The grass stands taller than your knees, all of it leaning slightly inland, bent that way over the years by the constant wind coming off the ocean.And as the breeze moves through, the blades of grass rattle softly against each other. A dry, papery sound. There.And then gone. You're carrying everything. The umbrella under one arm, the folded chair under the other, the big canvas bag heavy on your shoulder with the cooler inside it, cold against your hip through the cloth. It's a lot, but you don't mind because you know what's coming. The boardwalk rises gently toward the top of the dune. And then you come over the crest of it, and the whole sea opens out in front of you at once.A long curve of pale red gold sand running further than you can see in both directions. And beyond it, the water. Flat and bright and endless, with the sun scattered across it in a million moving points of light. The sound arrives at the same moment the view does. The surf, that slow, even, rolling hush. Breaking and drawing back, you stand at the top of the boardwalk for a moment and just take it in. The ocean breeze that moves the grass and pushes the clouds touches your face. Cool, clean. It ruffles your hair and lifts it from the back of your neck.The wind carries the smell of the whole place with it. Salt and the green of the wild grass and warm sand baking in the sun. You breathe it in and something happens as you do.The wind seems to take something with it as it goes past you. Some weight you've been carrying. The low, steady hum of everything you've been holding together for the last few months.It lifts off you and goes streaming inland with the wind. Up and out into all that open blue sky. You stand a little straighter.You feel a little lighter, like the wind has gone right through you and carried a heaviness out the other side. And the best part is how empty it is here. Far down the beach.A long way off. There are a few other people. Someone throwing a stick for a dog you can only just make out.A splash of a yellow umbrella. Tiny. Way off toward the point.Enough that the world is still here. But this stretch, this wide, quiet, sunlit stretch right in front of you is yours. You step down off the end of the boardwalk and your feet sink into the soft, dry sand.You walk out toward the water to find your place. A flock of sandpipers is working the water line. Small.Quick. Pale gray running down after each wave as it pulls back and then racing away again as the next one comes in. They're not bothered by you.They just keep on with it. Following the water down and back. And all along the high tide line there's driftwood.Great smooth white branches bleached by the salt and the sun. Worn soft and round at every edge. You pick your spot.A little rise of dry sand in the open. With a good view of the whole bay. You put everything down and you build your spot.The umbrella first. You work the point of it down into the sand. Twisting it deeper until it stands on its own. And then you tilt it a little. Angling the shade against the sun. You spread the blanket underneath and smooth it flat with both hands.You unfold the chair and set it half in the shade and half in the sun. You line the cooler up in the shadow of the umbrella where it'll stay cool. Last of all, you kick off your shoes and push them under the edge of the blanket. And your bare feet find the warm sand. And you lower yourself into the chair. It takes your weight and you sink back into it.There's nothing you have to do next. You planted the umbrella and that was the last task there was. And now there's just this. The chair. The shade. The sun on your legs.The water in front of you. And hours. And hours. With nothing in them, you reach into the cooler and pour yourself something cold. And your friend, it turns out, has packed you a feast. You start lifting things out one at a time and each one makes you love her a little more.There's a thermos of iced tea. Still cold. Beated with condensation.And when you pour it into the cup, the ice she must have packed at dawn is somehow still. Holding on. There are sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.Cut in halves. Good bread. Real butter.There's a container of strawberries. The small, dark, sweet ones. And another of cherries.A wedge of cheese. And a little knife. And a bag of good salty chips. The thick cut kind. And right at the bottom, wrapped in a tea towel, a slice of lemon cake. Because she knows there's far more than you could eat in a day.She overpacked it on purpose. The way people do when they can't be there themselves and they want to send their care along in the cooler instead. So you eat slowly in no order at all. A few berries. A corner of a sandwich. Chips.One after another. Salt on your fingers that you lick off without thinking. You eat exactly what you want. Exactly when you want it. And you don't make a plate for anyone. And you don't save the good bits for later.No one reaches over to take the last of anything. It is the most peaceful meal you've had in longer than you can remember. Just you. And the food. And the sound of the water. And the whole long afternoon still ahead. You set the cup down in the sand beside you, where it won't tip. And you sit back and you just watch the sea for a while. The gulls are up over the water, riding the wind without moving their wings, tilting and sliding sideways and calling to each other.The surf rolls in and draws back. Far out, the light moves on the water. And you sink a little deeper into the chair, feeling the first real drowsiness of the day move through you.Slow and pleasant, like the sun has got into your bones. And after a while, in spite of how good this feels, you are drawn to that water. So you get up out of your chair and you leave your spot exactly as it is.The umbrella. The chair. The cooler.Everything holding your place. And you walk down toward the sea. The dry sand is hot on the soles of your feet. And then a few steps on, it changes. Darker. Cool.Packed hard by the tide. Your feet leave clean prints that hold their shape behind you. The sandpipers scatter ahead of you as you come down.And then they settle again a little further along to carry on with their work. And then the water reaches you. A thin sheet of it slides up the sand and over your feet, and then it draws back, pulling the sand out from under your heels as it goes. That strange tugging feeling that tips your balance for just a second. You stand and let it happen again.Cold rush in, slow drag out. You start to walk along the edge, where the wet sand shines, the water running over your feet. Every few steps, the beach is scattered with things the tide brought in and left, broken shells most of them, white and gray and pink, worn to fragments, small stones, smooth and round, a crab claw, empty, orange as rust, and then a spark of color, low in the wet sand, catching the sun.You crouch down to look. It's a piece of sea glass, green, a soft, cloudy, frosted green, the color of an old bottle, worn completely smooth. You pick it up.It's cold and wet, heavier than you expect. Every sharp edge it ever had is gone, rubbed away to a soft roundness that sits perfectly in the hollow of your palm. Somebody threw this away a long time ago, a bottle, dropped or broken or tossed off a boat, and the sea took the jagged pieces and turned them for years and years against the sand until it made this, a small, smooth, lovely thing, cool in your hand.You rub the wet sand off it with your thumb and you slip it into your pocket. You walk on, slowly, bent a little at the waist, eyes moving over the sand. You're in no hurry at all.The looking is the whole pleasure of it. Most of what catches your eye turns out to be nothing, a wet pebble, a chip of a shell, a bottle cap, but you don't mind. You're not really trying to find anything.You're just walking and looking and letting the water run over your feet, and the not finding is as easy as the finding, and then another one. It's white this time, or almost white, a frosted, cloudy gray, thick and chunky. You turn it over.It might have been a plate once, or the lip of a heavy jar, or a window pane in a house that fell into the sea a hundred years ago. There's no way to know, and you don't need to know. You wonder about it for a moment, and then you let the wondering go, and you put it in your pocket with the green one, where they click softly together as you walk.A little further on, a brown piece, deep and warm, color of an old beer bottle, and then a pale blue one so small you almost miss it, and this one you hold for a long moment because blue is rare, and this soft, washed blue is the exact color of the sky. You gather them up as you go. A cloudy amber, another green, darker than the first, each one wet and cold and smooth, each one something broken that the sea has spent a lifetime making soft.Your pocket grows heavier, and you are not thinking about a single other thing in the world. Eventually, you straighten up. You stand there for a moment at the edge of the water with your pocket full of glass.The sun is higher now, warm across your shoulders. The water is running cool over your feet, and out in front of you, the sea is flat and bright and inviting, and you realize the thing you actually want, more than anything, is to be in it. You walk back to your spot just for a moment, and you pull off the shirt you've been wearing over your swimsuit and drop it on the blanket. You take the glass out of your pocket and set the pieces down on the corner of the towel, all in a little row, wet and shining, and then you turn and you walk back down to the water. The cold climbs up you as you go, over your ankles, that first shock again, and then your knees, and you keep walking, and the water rises to the tops of your thighs. A wave comes in higher than the rest and hits your stomach, and you laugh, that little jolt, and then it passes, and the water is up around your waist, and it feels wonderful.You wait for a good wave, see it coming, a slow swell gathering itself, and just as it reaches you, you push off the sand with your feet, and you let it lift you for a moment. You're weightless, rising with the swell and settling gently down on the other side of it, and it feels so good that you go still for a second, floating, trying to think of the last time you felt this, when at last felt this easy to be in your body. A long time ago, when you were a kid maybe, before life started handing you things to carry, before you learned to be careful, reserved, quieter.So you take a big breath, you tip yourself forward, and you kick up into a handstand, down under the surface, upside down. Everything goes muffled and green and slow, a whole quiet world of its own, and you can feel your ankles and your feet sticking straight out of the water into the air. A ridiculous sight for anyone who happens to be walking by, and you don't care.The current sways you gently back and forth. You hold it for as long as your breath lasts, and then you come down and plant your feet and burst back up into the bright, warm air, and you pull in all the air you can, and you push your wet hair back from your face, and you grin, and you lie back until your ears dip below the surface, and the beach goes distant and muffled. The seagulls, the surf, the wind, all of it dropping away, and there's only the sea's own deep hush all around you.You spread your arms, and you let your legs float up, and the sea holds you. You're floating. There's nothing under you now, nothing holding you, but the water, and the water holds you completely.Your body is carrying no weight at all. The swell lifts you slowly, and lowers you, and lifts you again, and the sun is warm on your closed eyelids, and the water is cool along your back. Your fingers trail loose and open.Your legs hang heavy and easy. Your neck has stopped holding your head. The water does that now.Every muscle has handed its job to the sea, and there's nothing left for you to do but float here, and breathe, and be carried. No one is waiting for you on the shore, tapping a watch. You can stay as long as you like, rising and falling on the bright, rocking water, eyes closed.Your whole body finally at rest, and eventually, when you come onto the water, it streams off of you. Warm air meets your wet skin, and you walk up the sand slowly, in no hurry, your feet gathering a coating of the fine red sand that clings to everything wet. And back at your spot, you pick up your towel, dry your face, your arms, your shoulders, and then you drape it around yourself, and lower into the chair.And you remember that it reclines, so you reach down, and you find the catch, and you let the back go down a notch, and then another, until you're tipped back, your legs stretched out in front of you. Your head resting. The sun has moved a little, and the shade of the umbrella has come with it. You can feel the sun pulling the last of the water off you, slow and steady. Your little row of sea glass is there on the corner of the towel where you left it, and you notice the pieces have changed. Out of the water, the green that was jewel bright and shining when it was wet, has dulled to a soft, frosted green matte, and the blue has gone pale and misty.They were brilliant in your wet hand an hour ago, now dry. They've settled back into what they are, small, soft, lovely. You gather them into your palm and close your hand around them, and feel them warm, slowly against your skin.You reach into the bag and find the book that you brought. You meant to read. You open it to where you left off, somewhere back in another week, another life.You find your line, and you start, but the sun is so warm, and the chair is holding you at exactly the right angle, and the surf is going in and out. That slow, even roll and hush, and the words on the page are there in front of you, but they're starting to slide a little. You read the same line again, and then again, and the book tips forward onto your chest, and you don't pick it up.The gulls are still up there, somewhere above you, calling that long, high sound. The surf rolls in and draws back. The warm sea glass is still curled in your hand, and you are so heavy, and so warm, and so completely at ease, that the idea of moving has quietly become impossible.Your friend won't be home for hours yet, and she doesn't expect you to have done anything with this day, except exactly this. The whole long, golden afternoon stretches out ahead of you, and all of it is yours, and there's not one single thing in it you have to do. So let your eyes close.The sun is warm through the edge of the umbrella. The chair holds you. The surf goes in and out, and you don't have to listen to it, and you don't have to do anything at all, but lie here, held, and warm, and heavy, and let it carry you down to where you actually are, because the truth is, you were never really on the sand.You've been here the whole time, in your bed, in the dark, warm under the blankets, and that is the thing worth keeping from tonight. It was never really about the beach. It was about the day that belonged to you, and no one else.The hours, with nothing owed in them. The body that finally got to stop holding itself up, and let someone else take the weight for a while. You don't need sand and salt water for that.You have it right now. This bed is that place tonight. Everything you were holding when you lay down, you're allowed to set it down now.All of it, just for tonight. It will keep and feel how heavy you are, how warm. That's not the beach, that's just you resting, and your shoulders have dropped, your hands have gone loose and open, your breathing has slowed all on its own, the way it did on the water.In and out, slow and easy. Notice how still you've become. Somewhere in the last little while, your body went quiet, really quiet.Your hands haven't moved in minutes, and your feet have gone soft and heavy under the blankets. And if you turn your attention inward, past all the noise of your day, you can just catch it. Your own heartbeat, slow and steady, deep in your chest, not hurrying anywhere.And your breath, moving in and out on its own, without your help, without your asking, slower now than when you lay down, and softer. Each breath carrying you a little further under. You deserve this.You deserve good things. And rest is one of them, real rest, the kind you don't have to earn or apologize for. And the good moments, the summer ones, the small, bright ones, they don't last, and they don't wait.So maybe, sometimes, you have to reach out and take them for yourself. And that is not selfish. And it is not too much to ask.The summer belongs to everyone. It belongs to you, too. And so does this. this sleep, waiting for you right at the edge, the way the water waited, patient and warm. All you have to do is close your eyes and let yourself go the rest of the way. Down into the warm, and the dark, and the quiet. Down into sleep.