Before Lunar New Year, I read an article by Meng Yan where he used a phrase that stayed with me: "forcing it makes it worse."
He used it to explain why AI writing often feels "too AI." When every paragraph is trying hard to be perfect, every sentence sounds over-structured, over-polished, and over-concluded. It becomes clean, but not alive.
At first, I only found the phrase interesting. I did not really understand it until I went to Indonesia for surf training during the holiday.
Those days I was focused on turns, mainly bottom turn and top turn. My early state was very typical: my body was on the wave, but my brain was still in "class mode."
My inner monologue sounded like this: - Do a bottom turn now. - Connect a top turn next. - Move faster or you lose the wave.
The problem was that I was executing a checklist, not reading the wave.
I would force a turn in the wrong place. Sometimes my upper body threw first, while my board and lower body lagged behind, and I got stuck mid-move before falling. On some waves, I could not even explain what I was trying to turn into.
Later I finally saw it clearly: I was not responding to the wave. I was obeying commands in my head.
That is a classic "student mindset."
Many Asian surfers, myself included, are used to breaking movement into instructions: pressure the rail, lead with the shoulder, look at the lip, snap back at the top. You feel safe when every step is logically defined.
But a wave is not a textbook. Speed, wall shape, position, and rhythm change every second. If you are running a mental sequence, your body is usually already late.
Then I started practicing one tiny thing: wait.
Especially right after the bottom turn.
Before, I always rushed into the return because I was nervous about getting too close to the lip. That area carries the most power, and I kept fearing the section would collapse on me. So I often turned back early, before the section was truly there.
Then I forced myself to change:
Wait. Wait. Not yet.
I kept my eyes on the lip, held the rail a bit longer, and let the line open up.
One wave in particular was around 1.5 to 1.8 meters. Not huge, but with a long wall. It was an inside break in Indonesia: clean shape, stable speed, not too steep and not too soft, the kind of wave that feels easy to talk to.
I dropped in, set a bottom turn, and deliberately held it.
Wait. One more beat.
I started the top turn only when I felt the wave begin to project forward and the lip about to pitch.
The turn down happened exactly on the breaking rhythm. The move itself was not dramatic. The board angle was maybe 45 to 50 degrees. But everything connected: no stutter, no panic, just one smooth beat between body, board, and water.
I still remember that wave clearly.
Looking back, the key difference was not "better technique." It was matching rhythm.
I used to have only one word in my head: faster. Now I have another word: wait.
When the mind gets quieter, more useful information appears on its own: - Where exactly am I on the wall? - Does this section still have speed? - When is the lip likely to break?
Moves stop being pre-scripted and start happening in response to the moment.
Sometimes I finish a whole wave with almost no internal dialogue, just following what the wave gives. Even in a crowded lineup, I can adjust lines more naturally, avoid people earlier, and keep the ride connected.
For a low-intermediate surfer, that is already a meaningful jump.
So yes, I now deeply agree with that phrase.
The harder you try to prove you can do a move, the stiffer and more rushed it gets. When you soften the effort, your body can finally start a real conversation with the wave.
Surfing is strange in that way: progress often comes from doing less, not more.
The most useful reminder I brought home is still one short line:
Wait.