Caught in the Rain - Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep

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Transcript6 lines

[00:01]
A
Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe Now.
[00:23]
B
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to the Canadian Red Cross Wildfire Relief Fund. They're working to help people and communities in need. Learn more about them in our show notes in our new app. You can of course listen to all of our podcasts ad free, but you can also listen to your favorite bedtime stories with extra soothing background sounds like rain or nature sounds or singing bowls. And there is so much more to our app like yoga and meditation classes taught by me, village projects and live events all@nothingmuchhappens.com I have a story to tell you just by resting your mind on it, by listening to the sound of my voice, we will shift you from the busyness of your brain's default mode network to the peace of its task positive mode, where sleep comes easily. I'll read our story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to just push play and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Caught in the Rain, and it's a story about a boat ride taken as the summer winds down. It's also about horseshoes and fresh, clean beach towels, the quiet rocking of the waves, the space between dreams and awareness, and the rush of cool air and dim light that comes with a summer storm. So lights out campers. Snuggle down and let it feel good. Let it sink in that you are in your safe place, about to have a wonderful night's sleep. I'll be here keeping watch as you rest. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in and out. Good. Caught in the rain. I sleep so well on the boat. Too well, maybe. We dropped anchor out where the water is clear all the way down to the bottom, still in sight of shore but where all we could hear was the water lapping at the sides of the boat and the birds calling as they flew overhead. When I dropped the anchor and watched it float slowly down to the bottom and settle into the sand, I smiled at its homemade shape. It was cobbled together from four horseshoes tied with a sturdy braided nylon rope I think my grandfather had made it, though even in his day there hadn't been horses anywhere nearby, so who knows where it actually had come from. It was one of those long lasting household objects that had simply always been there. It had held open the shed door, spent many winters pinning down the frost cloths in the rose garden, and for many years of my childhood was stuck under the short leg of the picnic table to keep it level. A few years ago the old boat anchor had been caught in some mud and tree roots too close to shore and had to be roughly yanked to the surface where it arose, broken into two separate pieces. I'd gone hunting for something to replace it and had found the bundle of horseshoes and rope on the top shelf of the workbench in the garage. I thought we'd only use it for the day, figuring it wouldn't work well enough to be a long term fix, but it was weighty and awkwardly shaped enough to catch against the sand just fine, so it was still holding the boat in place. Summers later, after I dropped it today, I shifted to sit on the edge of the pontoon's bow, the anchor rope taut beside me and the water washing over my feet and ankles. We were far enough into the summer now that the once cold lake water was almost warm. People said it's like a bathtub, but I didn't know what kind of baths they were used to taking because it was still plenty refreshing to me. I jumped in soon after, paddled around the boat a couple of times. The millions of leaves in the trees at the shore rippled and I scanned over them, noticing a few that were beginning to pale from their deep emerald green to a shade more like spring grass. Eventually I hauled myself up the ladder and climbed back onto deck. This was our favorite way to boat, not with a big raucous group and loud music blazing down the lake at top speed, but just the two of us and our books stretched out on towels, alternating between dozing and reading and basking in the sun. The pontoon's bimini top was open so that we had our choice of shade or sun, and I opted for some sun this time. I spread my towel over the sun deck at the back and laid down, tucking a second towel rolled up under my neck. Often at bedtime I could not fall asleep lying this way I could be perfectly comfortable, the pillow supporting in just the right way, a comforter, fluffy and warm, but my body would nag again and again that I roll to my side, that I pull one leg up and stretch the other out long, and when I did, I almost always immediately fell asleep. But here on the boat, with just an old beach towel for a pillow in the bright light, I couldn't have stayed awake for the life of me. The boat rocked gently as waves rolled under it, and soon I was slipping into that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, that place where you are still a little aware but the dreams have started, like the previews before the movie, but making a whole lot less sense. There is a term for it, an interesting sounding one, in fact. Hypnagogic hallucination. I'd looked it up and was assured to see it was a perfectly normal human experience, a normal phenomenon which sounded a bit like an oxymoron. But then many things contradict themselves. My mind drifted, occasionally more keenly aware when another boat drove by and sent a small wake of waves our way, sometimes deeply sunk in that good sort of paralyzing sleep that feels like you've been weighted down to your bed like Grandpa's old horseshoes or anchoring me to the soft vinyl of the sun deck. At some point I started to become aware of a change in temperature, or maybe in the brightness of the light. Something was different, and it was snagging against my sleepy mind because it meant something. All at once I realized what it meant and sat up clumsily from my seat to see that we had both awoken and were looking at each other in confusion. The sun was hidden behind low clouds and the breeze had picked up to a cool wind. The air smelled of rain, and I finally got a message to my mouth saying, it's going to storm. We were up in a moment, each of us tending to the tasks needed to get the boat back in motion. I pulled at the anchor rope as I heard the engines kick to life. It had just clunked down onto the deck as we began to sail towards home. I reached for the towels, tucking them into our beach bag, slipped the cooler behind a seat so it wouldn't slide around, and turned to look at the darkest of the clouds, which seemed to be racing toward us as we sped toward it. I can see the rain, I called in a raised voice against the wind, and it was suggested that I get under the Bimini and fast, which I did. We were only two minutes from our dock when it hit us, but it was coming down in buckets, and by the time the boat was pulled up to the pilings and we'd gotten her securely moored, we were both soaking wet. Anything that didn't absolutely need to come ashore was left on the boat, and we turned and ran down the dock toward land. We couldn't help but laugh. The cold rain shocked the system, shaking out any wayward thoughts and leaving us in the pure experience of the water on our skin, the thick grass under our feet as we raced up the yard toward the deck. We'd each grabbed a towel that we held over our heads, and the thought made me laugh till tears trickled from the sides of my eyes. We'd gone out on the water, been swimming in the water. Then the water had come to us and we'd run from it, sheltered against it. We both laughed, and rather than rush into the house, we stood for one more moment, letting the rain wash down our necks and over our feet. I was glad to have been caught in the rain. Caught in the rain. I sleep so well on the boat. Too well, maybe. We'd dropped anchor out where the water is clear all the way down to the bottom, still in sight of shore, but where all we could hear was the water lapping at the sides of the boat and the birds calling as they flew overhead. When I dropped the anchor in
[17:30]
A
and
[17:30]
B
watched it float slowly down to the bottom to settle into the sand, I smiled at its homemade shape. It was cobbled together from four horseshoes, tied with a sturdy braided nylon rope. I think my grandfather had made it, though even in his day there hadn't been horses anywhere nearby, so who knows where it actually had come from. It was one of those long lasting household objects that had simply always been there. It had held open the shed door, spent winters pinning down the frost cloths in the rose garden, and for many years of my childhood was stuck under the short leg of the picnic table to keep it level. A few years ago the old boat anchor had been caught in some mud and tree roots too close to shore and had to be roughly yanked to the surface where it arose in two separate pieces. I'd gone hunting for something to replace it and had found the bundle of horseshoes and rope on the top shelf of the workbench in the garage. I thought we'd only use it for the day, figuring it wouldn't work well enough to be a long term fix, but it was weighty and awkwardly shaped enough to catch against the sand just fine, so it was still holding the boat in place. Summers later, after I dropped it today, I shifted to sit on the edge of the pontoon's bow, the anchor rope taut beside me and the water washing over my feet and ankles. We were far enough into the summer now, that the once cold lake water was almost warm. People said it's like a bathtub, but I didn't know what kind of baths they were used to taking because it was still plenty refreshing to me. I jumped in soon after and paddled around the boat a couple of times. The millions of leaves in the trees at the shore rippled. I scanned over them, noticing a few that were beginning to pale from their deep emerald green to a shade more like spring grass. Eventually I hauled myself up the ladder and climbed back onto the deck. This was our favorite way to boat, not with a big raucous group and loud music blazing down the lake at top speed, but just the two of us and our books stretched out on towels, alternating between dozing and reading and basking in the sun. The pontoon's Bimini top was open so that we had our choice of shade or sun, and I opted for some sun this time. I spread my towel over the sun deck at the back and laid down, tucking a second one rolled up under my neck. Often at bedtime I could not fall asleep lying this way I could be perfectly comfortable, the pillow supporting in just the right way, the comforter fluffy and warm, but my body would nag again and again that I roll to my side, pull one leg up, and stretch the other out long. When I did, I almost always immediately fell asleep, but here on the boat, with just an old beach towel for a pillow in the bright light, I couldn't have stayed awake for the life of me. The boat rocked gently as waves rolled under it, and soon I was slipping into that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, that place where you are still a little aware but the dreams have started, like the previews before the movie, but making a whole lot less sense. There's a term for it, an interesting sounding one, in fact. Hypnagogic hallucination. I looked it up and was assured to see it was a perfectly normal human experience, a normal phenomenon which sounded a bit like an oxymoron, but then many things contradict themselves. My mind drifted, occasionally more keenly aware when another boat drove by and sent a small wake of waves our way, sometimes more deeply sunk in, and that good sort of paralyzing sleep that feels like you've been waded down to your bed. My grandpa's old horseshoes were anchoring me to the soft vinyl of the sun deck. At some point I started to become aware of a change in temperature, or maybe in the brightness of the light. Something was different, and it was snagging against my sleepy mind because it meant something. All at once I realized what it meant and sat up clumsily from my seat to see. We had both awoken and were looking at each other in confusion. The sun was hidden behind low clouds and the breeze had picked up to a cool wind. The air smelled of rain, and I finally got a message to my mouth saying, it's going to storm. We were up in a moment, each of us tending to the tasks needed to get the boat back in motion. I pulled at the anchor rope as I heard the engines kick to life. It had just clunked down onto the deck as we began to sail toward home. I reached for the towels, tucking them into our beach bag, pushed the cooler behind a seat so it wouldn't slide around, and turned to look at the darkest of the clouds, which seemed to be racing toward us as we sped toward it. I can see the rain, I called in a raised voice against the wind, and it was suggested that I get under the Bimini and fast, which I did. We were only two minutes from our dock when it hit us,
[29:11]
A
but it
[29:11]
B
was coming down in buckets, and by the time the boat was pulled up to the pilings and we'd gotten her securely moored, we were both soaking wet. Anything that didn't absolutely need to come ashore was left on the boat, and we turned and ran down the dock toward land. We couldn't help but laugh. The cold rain shocked the system, shaking out any wayward thoughts and leaving us in the pure experience, the water on our skin, the thick grass under our feet as we raced up the yard toward the deck. We'd each grabbed a towel that we'd held over our heads, and the thought made me laugh more till the tears trickled from the sides of my eyes. We'd gone out on the water, been swimming in the water, and then the water had come to us and we'd run from it, sheltered against it. We both laughed, and rather than rush into the house, we stood for one more moment, letting the rain wash down our necks and over our feet. I was glad to have been caught in the rain. Sweet dreams,

Summary4 min read

Podcast Summary: “Caught in the Rain”

Podcast: Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Host: Kathryn Nicolai
Episode Release Date: August 3, 2026
Episode Theme: A gentle, cozy boat ride and getting caught in a summer rainstorm, designed to foster relaxation and sleep.

Overview

In this episode, Kathryn Nicolai invites listeners to unwind with a soft, comforting story set on a lake at the end of summer. The narration gently takes the audience through meditative sensations: the lapping of water, the warmth of sun, and the embrace of a quiet rainstorm. This story is purpose-built for bedtime, lulling listeners into a peaceful mindset and guiding them toward restful sleep through detail-rich storytelling and a soothing tone.

Key Discussion Points and Story Insights

1. The Boat’s Essence and Anchoring in Memory

Kathryn describes sleeping on a boat as “too well, maybe” ([05:19])—the kind of rest achieved only in a setting of deep peace and safety.
The homemade anchor, crafted from four horseshoes and nylon rope, carries rich family history and practical nostalgia. Once a doorstop, frost cloth weight, and picnic table stabilizer, it now holds the boat steady ([06:54]–[08:21]).
The anchor is a metaphor for the anchoring feeling of routine and memory, connecting past and present.

2. The Texture of Late Summer

Vivid sensory details evoke the environment: clear water, sun-warmed but still refreshing lake, towels soft on skin, early hints of fall seen in leaves pale against green ([09:10]–[11:20]).
The simple joy of boating is described: “just the two of us and our books, stretched out on towels, alternating between dozing and reading and basking in the sun” ([11:38]).
Choosing between sun and shade under the pontoon’s bimini top is a metaphor for self-care and small, gentle choices.

3. The Bridge Between Wakefulness and Sleep

Kathryn describes drifting into “that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, that place where you are still a little aware but the dreams have started—like the previews before the movie but making a whole lot less sense” ([12:50]).
She references the term ‘hypnagogic hallucination’—the fleeting images and sensations before full sleep—a reassurance that these are “a perfectly normal human experience” ([13:12]).

4. The Storm’s Approach: Awakening and Togetherness

Subtle changes—drop in temperature, dimmed light, the scent of rain—rouse the narrator from near-sleep ([14:18]).
The sudden teamwork of preparing the boat as the storm rolls in is narrated with calm urgency, underscoring companionship and competence ([15:22]).
Quote: “I can see the rain,” I called in a raised voice against the wind, and it was suggested that I get under the Bimini and fast, which I did. ([15:49])

5. The Joy of Being Caught in the Rain

The rain is intense, “coming down in buckets” as they arrive home, both soaked and exhilarated ([16:15]).
Laughter and shared effort: “We couldn’t help but laugh. The cold rain shocked the system, shaking out any wayward thoughts and leaving us in the pure experience of the water on our skin, the thick grass under our feet as we raced up the yard.” ([16:29])
Instead of fleeing for shelter, they pause: “We stood for one more moment, letting the rain wash down our necks and over our feet. I was glad to have been caught in the rain.” ([16:56])

Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

“It had held open the shed door, spent many winters pinning down the frost cloths in the rose garden, and for many years of my childhood was stuck under the short leg of the picnic table to keep it level.” ([07:10])
A quietly poetic summing-up of the continuity of household objects and memories.
“This was our favorite way to boat—not with a big raucous group and loud music blazing down the lake at top speed, but just the two of us and our books, stretched out on towels… alternating between dozing and reading and basking in the sun.” ([11:38])
“That place where you are still a little aware but the dreams have started—like the previews before the movie, but making a whole lot less sense.” ([12:53])
“We’d gone out on the water, been swimming in the water, then the water had come to us and we’d run from it, sheltered against it… We both laughed, and rather than rush into the house, we stood for one more moment, letting the rain wash down our necks and over our feet. I was glad to have been caught in the rain.” ([16:56])

Important Timestamps

00:23 – Introduction and sleep guidance
05:19 – Description of sleeping on the boat
06:54 – The story behind the homemade horseshoe anchor
09:10 – Sensory narration of lake and surroundings
11:38 – Peaceful activities on the boat
12:50 – Entering the hypnagogic state between waking and sleep
14:18 – Noticing the changing weather
15:22 – Preparing the boat as a storm approaches
16:29 – Joyful sprint through the rain and laughter
16:56 – Closing reflection on gratitude for the rain

Tone and Narrative Style

Kathryn Nicolai’s voice is kind, measured, and soothing, embracing sensory detail and gentle humor. The narrative invites listeners to let go, using lush description and an intentionally “slow” tone to encourage relaxation. The story radiates tranquility, nostalgia, and contentment.

Summary

“Caught in the Rain” is a masterfully calm, sensory-rich meditation on quiet joy, change, and the small rituals that make us feel safe and ready for rest. Kathryn’s gentle reflection on boating, memory, and the surprise of a summer rainstorm creates a space of security and gratitude—an ideal companion for drifting gently to sleep.

Loading summary

Transcript6 lines

[00:01]
A
Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe Now.
[00:23]
B
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to the Canadian Red Cross Wildfire Relief Fund. They're working to help people and communities in need. Learn more about them in our show notes in our new app. You can of course listen to all of our podcasts ad free, but you can also listen to your favorite bedtime stories with extra soothing background sounds like rain or nature sounds or singing bowls. And there is so much more to our app like yoga and meditation classes taught by me, village projects and live events all@nothingmuchhappens.com I have a story to tell you just by resting your mind on it, by listening to the sound of my voice, we will shift you from the busyness of your brain's default mode network to the peace of its task positive mode, where sleep comes easily. I'll read our story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to just push play and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Caught in the Rain, and it's a story about a boat ride taken as the summer winds down. It's also about horseshoes and fresh, clean beach towels, the quiet rocking of the waves, the space between dreams and awareness, and the rush of cool air and dim light that comes with a summer storm. So lights out campers. Snuggle down and let it feel good. Let it sink in that you are in your safe place, about to have a wonderful night's sleep. I'll be here keeping watch as you rest. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in and out. Good. Caught in the rain. I sleep so well on the boat. Too well, maybe. We dropped anchor out where the water is clear all the way down to the bottom, still in sight of shore but where all we could hear was the water lapping at the sides of the boat and the birds calling as they flew overhead. When I dropped the anchor and watched it float slowly down to the bottom and settle into the sand, I smiled at its homemade shape. It was cobbled together from four horseshoes tied with a sturdy braided nylon rope I think my grandfather had made it, though even in his day there hadn't been horses anywhere nearby, so who knows where it actually had come from. It was one of those long lasting household objects that had simply always been there. It had held open the shed door, spent many winters pinning down the frost cloths in the rose garden, and for many years of my childhood was stuck under the short leg of the picnic table to keep it level. A few years ago the old boat anchor had been caught in some mud and tree roots too close to shore and had to be roughly yanked to the surface where it arose, broken into two separate pieces. I'd gone hunting for something to replace it and had found the bundle of horseshoes and rope on the top shelf of the workbench in the garage. I thought we'd only use it for the day, figuring it wouldn't work well enough to be a long term fix, but it was weighty and awkwardly shaped enough to catch against the sand just fine, so it was still holding the boat in place. Summers later, after I dropped it today, I shifted to sit on the edge of the pontoon's bow, the anchor rope taut beside me and the water washing over my feet and ankles. We were far enough into the summer now that the once cold lake water was almost warm. People said it's like a bathtub, but I didn't know what kind of baths they were used to taking because it was still plenty refreshing to me. I jumped in soon after, paddled around the boat a couple of times. The millions of leaves in the trees at the shore rippled and I scanned over them, noticing a few that were beginning to pale from their deep emerald green to a shade more like spring grass. Eventually I hauled myself up the ladder and climbed back onto deck. This was our favorite way to boat, not with a big raucous group and loud music blazing down the lake at top speed, but just the two of us and our books stretched out on towels, alternating between dozing and reading and basking in the sun. The pontoon's bimini top was open so that we had our choice of shade or sun, and I opted for some sun this time. I spread my towel over the sun deck at the back and laid down, tucking a second towel rolled up under my neck. Often at bedtime I could not fall asleep lying this way I could be perfectly comfortable, the pillow supporting in just the right way, a comforter, fluffy and warm, but my body would nag again and again that I roll to my side, that I pull one leg up and stretch the other out long, and when I did, I almost always immediately fell asleep. But here on the boat, with just an old beach towel for a pillow in the bright light, I couldn't have stayed awake for the life of me. The boat rocked gently as waves rolled under it, and soon I was slipping into that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, that place where you are still a little aware but the dreams have started, like the previews before the movie, but making a whole lot less sense. There is a term for it, an interesting sounding one, in fact. Hypnagogic hallucination. I'd looked it up and was assured to see it was a perfectly normal human experience, a normal phenomenon which sounded a bit like an oxymoron. But then many things contradict themselves. My mind drifted, occasionally more keenly aware when another boat drove by and sent a small wake of waves our way, sometimes deeply sunk in that good sort of paralyzing sleep that feels like you've been weighted down to your bed like Grandpa's old horseshoes or anchoring me to the soft vinyl of the sun deck. At some point I started to become aware of a change in temperature, or maybe in the brightness of the light. Something was different, and it was snagging against my sleepy mind because it meant something. All at once I realized what it meant and sat up clumsily from my seat to see that we had both awoken and were looking at each other in confusion. The sun was hidden behind low clouds and the breeze had picked up to a cool wind. The air smelled of rain, and I finally got a message to my mouth saying, it's going to storm. We were up in a moment, each of us tending to the tasks needed to get the boat back in motion. I pulled at the anchor rope as I heard the engines kick to life. It had just clunked down onto the deck as we began to sail towards home. I reached for the towels, tucking them into our beach bag, slipped the cooler behind a seat so it wouldn't slide around, and turned to look at the darkest of the clouds, which seemed to be racing toward us as we sped toward it. I can see the rain, I called in a raised voice against the wind, and it was suggested that I get under the Bimini and fast, which I did. We were only two minutes from our dock when it hit us, but it was coming down in buckets, and by the time the boat was pulled up to the pilings and we'd gotten her securely moored, we were both soaking wet. Anything that didn't absolutely need to come ashore was left on the boat, and we turned and ran down the dock toward land. We couldn't help but laugh. The cold rain shocked the system, shaking out any wayward thoughts and leaving us in the pure experience of the water on our skin, the thick grass under our feet as we raced up the yard toward the deck. We'd each grabbed a towel that we held over our heads, and the thought made me laugh till tears trickled from the sides of my eyes. We'd gone out on the water, been swimming in the water. Then the water had come to us and we'd run from it, sheltered against it. We both laughed, and rather than rush into the house, we stood for one more moment, letting the rain wash down our necks and over our feet. I was glad to have been caught in the rain. Caught in the rain. I sleep so well on the boat. Too well, maybe. We'd dropped anchor out where the water is clear all the way down to the bottom, still in sight of shore, but where all we could hear was the water lapping at the sides of the boat and the birds calling as they flew overhead. When I dropped the anchor in
[17:30]
A
and
[17:30]
B
watched it float slowly down to the bottom to settle into the sand, I smiled at its homemade shape. It was cobbled together from four horseshoes, tied with a sturdy braided nylon rope. I think my grandfather had made it, though even in his day there hadn't been horses anywhere nearby, so who knows where it actually had come from. It was one of those long lasting household objects that had simply always been there. It had held open the shed door, spent winters pinning down the frost cloths in the rose garden, and for many years of my childhood was stuck under the short leg of the picnic table to keep it level. A few years ago the old boat anchor had been caught in some mud and tree roots too close to shore and had to be roughly yanked to the surface where it arose in two separate pieces. I'd gone hunting for something to replace it and had found the bundle of horseshoes and rope on the top shelf of the workbench in the garage. I thought we'd only use it for the day, figuring it wouldn't work well enough to be a long term fix, but it was weighty and awkwardly shaped enough to catch against the sand just fine, so it was still holding the boat in place. Summers later, after I dropped it today, I shifted to sit on the edge of the pontoon's bow, the anchor rope taut beside me and the water washing over my feet and ankles. We were far enough into the summer now, that the once cold lake water was almost warm. People said it's like a bathtub, but I didn't know what kind of baths they were used to taking because it was still plenty refreshing to me. I jumped in soon after and paddled around the boat a couple of times. The millions of leaves in the trees at the shore rippled. I scanned over them, noticing a few that were beginning to pale from their deep emerald green to a shade more like spring grass. Eventually I hauled myself up the ladder and climbed back onto the deck. This was our favorite way to boat, not with a big raucous group and loud music blazing down the lake at top speed, but just the two of us and our books stretched out on towels, alternating between dozing and reading and basking in the sun. The pontoon's Bimini top was open so that we had our choice of shade or sun, and I opted for some sun this time. I spread my towel over the sun deck at the back and laid down, tucking a second one rolled up under my neck. Often at bedtime I could not fall asleep lying this way I could be perfectly comfortable, the pillow supporting in just the right way, the comforter fluffy and warm, but my body would nag again and again that I roll to my side, pull one leg up, and stretch the other out long. When I did, I almost always immediately fell asleep, but here on the boat, with just an old beach towel for a pillow in the bright light, I couldn't have stayed awake for the life of me. The boat rocked gently as waves rolled under it, and soon I was slipping into that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, that place where you are still a little aware but the dreams have started, like the previews before the movie, but making a whole lot less sense. There's a term for it, an interesting sounding one, in fact. Hypnagogic hallucination. I looked it up and was assured to see it was a perfectly normal human experience, a normal phenomenon which sounded a bit like an oxymoron, but then many things contradict themselves. My mind drifted, occasionally more keenly aware when another boat drove by and sent a small wake of waves our way, sometimes more deeply sunk in, and that good sort of paralyzing sleep that feels like you've been waded down to your bed. My grandpa's old horseshoes were anchoring me to the soft vinyl of the sun deck. At some point I started to become aware of a change in temperature, or maybe in the brightness of the light. Something was different, and it was snagging against my sleepy mind because it meant something. All at once I realized what it meant and sat up clumsily from my seat to see. We had both awoken and were looking at each other in confusion. The sun was hidden behind low clouds and the breeze had picked up to a cool wind. The air smelled of rain, and I finally got a message to my mouth saying, it's going to storm. We were up in a moment, each of us tending to the tasks needed to get the boat back in motion. I pulled at the anchor rope as I heard the engines kick to life. It had just clunked down onto the deck as we began to sail toward home. I reached for the towels, tucking them into our beach bag, pushed the cooler behind a seat so it wouldn't slide around, and turned to look at the darkest of the clouds, which seemed to be racing toward us as we sped toward it. I can see the rain, I called in a raised voice against the wind, and it was suggested that I get under the Bimini and fast, which I did. We were only two minutes from our dock when it hit us,
[29:11]
A
but it
[29:11]
B
was coming down in buckets, and by the time the boat was pulled up to the pilings and we'd gotten her securely moored, we were both soaking wet. Anything that didn't absolutely need to come ashore was left on the boat, and we turned and ran down the dock toward land. We couldn't help but laugh. The cold rain shocked the system, shaking out any wayward thoughts and leaving us in the pure experience, the water on our skin, the thick grass under our feet as we raced up the yard toward the deck. We'd each grabbed a towel that we'd held over our heads, and the thought made me laugh more till the tears trickled from the sides of my eyes. We'd gone out on the water, been swimming in the water, and then the water had come to us and we'd run from it, sheltered against it. We both laughed, and rather than rush into the house, we stood for one more moment, letting the rain wash down our necks and over our feet. I was glad to have been caught in the rain. Sweet dreams,