Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Main Sail

Episode Date: August 23, 2021

Our story tonight is called The Main Sail and it’s a story about the end of the summer traditions up at the cottage on the river. It’s also about penny candy in a brown paper bag, the sun just before it sets, and the ways we mark the time we spend with people we love. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. If you love these stories, there is a whole world waiting for you in my book, also called Nothing Much Happens. And there are bonus stories, four of them now, on our premium plus subscription feed.

Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, busy minds need a place to rest. Without some framework, some structure for your thoughts, they are likely to run wild and without stop. So just listen to the sound of my voice and follow along with the general shape of the story. Before you know it, you'll be fast asleep. If you wake later and feel your thoughts begin to race again, you could listen again, or just think your way back through any part of the story you can remember.

That bit of structure will steer you right back to sleep. I promise. And since it's brain training, it will get easier and more automatic with time. Now, turn off your light. Put away anything you've been looking at or playing with. Get as comfortable as you can. You have done enough for the day. It is enough.

And now all that is left is for you to rest. Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Do it again. In, and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Main Sail, and it's a story about the end of the summer traditions up at the cottage on the river.

It's also about penny candy in a brown paper bag, the sun just before it sets, and the ways we mark the time we spend with people we love. The main sail. When we are at the cottage, we spend a lot more time watching boats than sailing on them. And that's fine with us. We watch them from the end of the dock,

wrapped in beach towels after an early morning dip, with cups of coffee cooling on the boards beside us. We watch them on walks along the river's edge, from the rusty steel breakwalls that shepherd the side waves of the freighters going downriver. We watch them from the screened-in porch at night, when the bugs have chased us in, with books in our hands, or spreads of solitaire laid out on the table.

There are small boats, dinghies, for quick trips up and down the river, pontoons, which strike me as the most relaxing option, like floating along on your living room sofa. Then there are bigger boats, cozy houseboats with curtains in the windows and deck chairs, and goofy names which are nearly always private jokes, or terrible puns, or sometimes both, the words not and peer showing up more than any other. There are sailboats with bright white sails, or ones in a rainbow of colors. They cut through the water quietly, powered just by the wind, without a noisy motor at the stern. Then there are the ships and freighters. Thousand footers with squared off sterns and superstructures several stories tall.

And the shorter ocean-going boats with pointed bows whose cargo tended to sit on deck as well as in the hold. When we saw one we weren't familiar with, out would come the binoculars, and we'd report the flags flying at the stern, the logo painted on the smokestack, and any other detail we could lay our eyes on. Sometimes we might spot a crew member walking along the deck, and they might spot us, and we'd wave, our arms swinging high overhead, and they would wave back. On foggy mornings or winter days when the river was edged in shifting ice, the ships might have tugboats on their flanks, guiding them through the channel,

or icebreakers to keep the path clear. I had a particular love for tugboats, the way their stacks tilted slightly back like a winter hat pulled away from their eyes the friendly red paint the same color as an old barn on a stretch of farmland and the power packed into their tiny bodies they were guardians and the power packed into their tiny bodies. They were guardians, there to help. And when I spotted them tugging a barge upriver, or even just docked by the ferry, I felt good knowing they were there.

The summer was nearly over now, and we were making the most of the days we had left. We rode our bikes to the turnaround in the mornings, stopping to look out at the lighthouses, marking the crooked line of the channel, as if they were two points on a constellation that could only be seen from above and at night. We visited with our neighbors,

sitting on picnic tables or front porches, and gossiped about who had bought that old gray Victorian at the end of the street, and if we could possibly worm our way in to see its secrets. We walked down to the little shop at the gravel crossroads and bought a bag of penny candy. I'd been doing this since I was a child, when I would weigh with great gravity every item before slipping it into the brown paper lunch bags slotted in between the candy jars. I'd have walked down with only so much money in my pocket, so would have to decide between the candy dots and the taffy,

the sour gummies and those funny little flying saucer wafers filled with sprinkles. These days I liked the hot cinnamon jawbreakers and kept a secret stash in my glove compartment for road trips. We'd even floated down the river, which was a long-time tradition honored by every extended member of the family and perch ourselves as best we could on inner tubes and rafts and paddle out to the edge of the channel

where we'd let the current carry us in a slow, lazy line down past the blue boathouse, past the rope-bound posts sunk deep in the river floor to mark the sandbar, and to the beach, where we could climb out and walk, dripping and in bare feet, the four or five blocks back to the cottage. As kids, my cousins and I did this every day, whenever we could convince a grown-up to come along with us, as was the rule. And at family reunions, even the matriarchs, patriarchs, and natriarchs

could be talked into it on the basis of tradition. But now, once per summer was enough. And we'd done it. We were winding up the last threads of the summer when we got an invitation from a friend who'd be passing by on his sailboat. And did we want to come aboard for a sunset sail? Of course we did. We pulled on sweatshirts, knowing that the river air would be cool at dusk and left the dogs watching us

from their spots on the screened-in porch. We walked to the edge of the dock where it stuck out a bit into the river we spotted our friend sailing toward us waving from the helm as he crept closer he was going as slowly as he could so that we could reach out and catch the pole he held in our direction.

It was a small boat, one he sailed all by himself most days. So stepping aboard was easy enough, as long as you went with a bit of confidence. Hesitation might land you in the drink. In fact, as my foot met the deck, I remembered this friend taking me out when we were teenagers to try to sail for the first time. We'd been on a small inland lake,

small enough that there were no other boats. And when my friend became overwhelmed with the rigging, with the sails and the knots and the lines, he'd simply grabbed the end of one of the ropes and jumped into the water and pulled us ashore. He'd come a long way, but I like to remind him of that first attempt now and then. On board, we sailed past docks with lights at their ends, old boathouses with chipping paint, and the front porches of our neighbors where they sat finishing their dinners. We sailed out past the bend in the river, where we couldn't see from our own porch, where the sun was a red ball,

one finger above the horizon. The mainsail was open, but there was almost no wind at all, and the water nearly flat after a day of being churned by a hundred motors. It reminded me that given enough time, nearly everything will settle and calm. The sun would set, the boat would find its way back to our dock, and we'd add one more memory to the summer.

The mainail. When we are at the cottage, we spend a lot more time watching boats than sailing on them. And that is fine with us. We watch them from the end of the dock, wrapped in beach towels after an early morning dip, with cups of coffee cooling on the boards beside us. We watch them on walks along the river's edge, from the rusty steel breakwalls that shepherd the side waves of the freighters going downriver. We watch them from the screened-in porch at night when the bugs have chased us in with books in our hands or spreads of solitaire laid out on the table. There are small boats, dinghies for quick trips up and down the river, pontoons which

strike me as the most relaxing option, like floating along on your living room sofa. Then there are bigger boats, cozy houseboats with curtains in the windows and deck chairs and goofy names, which are nearly always private jokes or terrible puns, or sometimes both. The words not and peer showing up more than any other. There are sailboats with bright white sails, or ones in a rainbow of colors. They cut through the water quietly, powered just by the wind, without a noisy motor at the stern. Then there are the ships and freighters,

thousand-footers with squared-off sterns and superstructures several stories tall, and the shorter ocean-going boats with pointed bows, whose cargo tended to sit on deck as well as in the hold. When we saw one we weren't familiar with, out would come the binoculars, and we'd report the flags flying at the stern, the logo painted on the smokestack, and any other detail we could lay our eyes on. Sometimes we might spot a crew member walking along the deck and they might spot us and we'd, our arms swinging high overhead, and they would wave back. On foggy mornings or winter days, when the river was edged in shifting ice, the ships might have tugboats on their flanks,

guiding them through the channel, or icebreakers to keep the path clear. I had a particular love for tugboats. The way their stacks tilted slightly back, like a winter hat pulled away from their eyes. The friendly red paint, the same color as an old barn on a stretch of farmland, and the power packed into their tiny bodies.

They were guardians, there to help, and when I spotted them tugging a barge upriver or even just docked by the ferry I felt good knowing they were there. The summer was nearly over now, and we were making the most of the days we had left. We rode our bikes to the turnaround in the mornings, stopping to look out at the lighthouses, marking the crooked line of the channel as if they were two points on a constellation that could only be seen from above and at night.

We visited with our neighbors, sitting on picnic tables or front porches, and gossiped about who had bought that old gray Victorian at the end of the street, and if we could possibly worm our way in to see its secrets. We walked down to the little shop at the gravel crossroads and bought a bag of penny candy. I'd been doing this since I was a child, when I would weigh with great gravity every item before slipping it into the brown paper lunch bags slotted in between the candy jars. I'd have walked down with only so much money in my pocket, so would have to decide between between the candy dots and the taffy. The sour gummies and those funny little flying saucer wafers filled with sprinkles. These days, I liked the hot cinnamon jawbreakers and kept a secret stash in my glove compartment for road trips. We'd even floated down the river, which was a long-time tradition, honored by every extended

member of the family, and had been for years. We'd jump in the river and perch ourselves as best we could on inner tubes and rafts and paddle out to the edge of the channel where we'd let the current carry us in a slow lazy line down past the blue-bound posts sunk deep in the river floor to mark the sandbar and to the beach where we could climb out and walk dripping and in bare feet the four or five blocks back to the cottage.

As kids, my cousins and I did this every day. Whenever we could convince a grown-up to come along with us, as was the rule. And at family reunions, even the matriarchs, patriarchs, and natriarchs could be talked into it on the basis of tradition. But now, once per summer was enough. And we'd done it. We were winding up the last threads of the summer when we got an invitation from a friend who'd be passing by on his sailboat.

And did we want to come aboard for a sunset sail? Of course we did. We pulled on sweatshirts, knowing that the river air would be cool at dusk, and left the dogs watching us from their spots on the screened-in porch. We walked to the edge of the dock, where it stuck out a bit into the river. We spotted our friend sailing toward us, waving from the helm as he crept closer. He was going as slowly as he could so that we could reach out and catch the pole he held in our direction. It was a small boat,

one he sailed all by himself most days. So stepping aboard was easy enough, as long as you went with a bit of confidence. Hesitation might land you in the drink. In fact, as my foot met the dock, I remembered this friend taking me out when we were teenagers to try to sail for the first time. We'd been on a small inland lake, small enough that there were no other boats out.

And when my friend became overwhelmed with the rigging and the sails, with the knots and the lines. He'd simply grabbed the end of one of the ropes and jumped into the water and pulled us ashore. He'd come a long way, but I'd like to remind him of that first attempt now and then. On board, we sailed past docks with lights at their ends, old boathouses with chipping paint, and the front porches of our neighbors,

where they sat finishing their dinners. We sailed out past the bend in the river, where we couldn't see from our own porch, where the sun was a red ball, one finger above the horizon. The mainsail was open, but there was almost no wind at all, and the water nearly flat after a day of being churned by a hundred motors. It reminded me that, given enough time, nearly everything will settle and calm. The sun would set.

The boat would find its way back to our dock. And we'd add one more memory to the summer. Sweet dreams.